A Family Affair
by dragongrrl
Summary: Sara's "nephew" comes to her for help; Ian Nottingham becomes involved.
1. Default Chapter

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Not even close. I'm just playing around.  
  
Chapter 1.  
  
Sara Pezzini sat at her desk slogging through one of her least favorite aspects of her job as a New York City homicide detective: paperwork. It seemed endless. It was endless.  
  
Across from her, her partner Danny Woo was doing the same thing, but instead of the sighs and muttered complaints coming from Sara's desk, he was smiling slightly as he hummed an upbeat tune.  
  
Because Sara hadn't yet had her fourth cup of coffee that morning, the humming was starting to get on her nerves. But he appeared oblivious to the dark looks she kept throwing his way. Finally, she gave up and threw down her pen.  
  
"Okay, Woo. Fess up."  
  
Her partner glanced up at her innocently. "What?"  
  
"You know what. The humming and silly smile. What, did you get some last night?"  
  
"Sara, now here I thought you liked my smile!" Danny said, feigning hurt feelings.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. So, why so cheerful? I know it can't be the joy of paperwork."  
  
"Well, I do take pride and extreme pleasure in every aspect of my job as you know, but, okay, you caught me," Danny admitted.  
  
Sara rolled her eyes. "So? Do I have to drag it out of you? Don't keep me hanging here, guy!"  
  
"Lee and I got the house! There was a message on the machine from the realtor when I got home last night! We're moving on up, baby!" Danny crowed.  
  
"Wow! That's great, Danny! A real house with a yard and everything, hunh?"  
  
"Yep. We're finally gonna be homeowners in the great borough of Queens!"  
  
"Well, then the creepy humming and smiling before noon is forgiven. High five!"  
  
The partners slapped hands.  
  
"And what are we congratulating ourselves about on this fine morning?" Jake McCartey asked, sauntering into the office.  
  
"Hey, Rookie! Glad you could make it in today!" Sara shot back at him.  
  
"For your information, Detective Pezzini, I've been here since 8:30. Captain Dante partnered me with Orlinsky on a case that came in this morning."  
  
Sara raised her eyebrows. "You're working a case with Orlinsky? What about the four cases we're still supposed to be working?"  
  
Jake shrugged, taking the guest chair by Sara's desk. "I just do as I'm told, what with being a rookie and all. Jealous?" He grinned at her, wiggling his eyebrows.  
  
"Yeah, right. In your dreams, Rookie."  
  
"So, what were you guys high-fiving about?" Jake asked again.  
  
Danny cleared his throat. "Oh, um, just the fact that Lee and I got the house in Queens!"  
  
"No shit, man! That's awesome!" Jake raised his hand for a high five, and Danny went to hit it but pulled his hand back at the last moment, leaving the rookie hanging.  
  
"Aw, man, that's cold."  
  
"No, cold is what this sorry excuse for coffee is," Sara said, frowning at her cup. She stood and grabbed her jacket. "Who wants the real deal? I'm gonna go grab some."  
  
"Thanks, partner. You know how I likes it," Danny said.  
  
"And I'll have a cappuccino, please," Jake said.  
  
"Who asked you, Rookie?" Sara said, then grinned to show she was kidding. She headed out the office and through the precinct.  
  
Outside, it was unusually mild for mid-November. The forecasters were calling for a major snowstorm later in the week, but Sara had her doubts about that seeing as it felt like it was nearly 60 degrees out.  
  
She headed down the street only to stop in her tracks as she felt the Witchblade grow warm on her right wrist. She glanced down at the bracelet, and saw that the red stone was swirling gently as it only did when a certain tall, dark, psychotic person was nearby. Sighing heavily, Sara glanced toward the alley that ran alongside the 11th Precinct, expecting to see her very own personal stalker's black-clad form lurking there. She blinked as instead she saw a very nervous-looking teenaged boy standing in the shadows.  
  
"Joey? Joey, is that you?"  
  
The boy smiled, and started to walk toward her.  
  
But before he could move, a big shadowy form seemingly materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the gangly youth, throwing him up against the wall of the alley and pinning him there with one muscular forearm.  
  
"Hey, hey, Nottingham, you psycho, what are you doing!?!" Sara yelled, rushing into the alley. "Let go of him!" She pulled at the sleeve of the black wool overcoat that the lethal assassin never seemed to venture outside without. She might as well have pulled at the brick wall itself for the all the difference it made.  
  
"He is armed, Lady Sara." Ian Nottingham said softly. He handed the boy's backpack to her, never taking his eyes from the terrified teen's face. "The weapon is in there."  
  
"He's my nephew is what he is, you freak!" Sara snarled, snatching the book bag from Ian's gloved hand furiously. "Now, let him go!"  
  
Laser-like hazel eyes focused on her for a moment. "Your nephew? You do not have any siblings, Sara, so how could you have a nephew?"  
  
Sara drew her gun, chambering a round and flicking off the safety. "Let. Him. Go. I won't ask you again," she growled.  
  
Slowly, the black-clad man removed his forearm from the petrified boy's sternum. He moved a few feet away, deeper into the shadows, of course, and took up his habitual parade rest stance: booted feet spread wide, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed.  
  
Sara glared at him for a moment, then turned to the shaken teenager, grasping his shoulders gently and looking up into his pale face.  
  
"Are you okay, Joey? Did he hurt you?" she asked softly, fighting the urge to just turn around and put a cap into Nottingham's freakish ass.  
  
"No, I'm okay, Aunt Sara." He ducked his head, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Who is that guy anyways?"  
  
"Oh, just your friendly neighborhood psycho," Sara said, raising her voice on the last word for Nottingham's benefit, although unbeknownst to her he could clearly hear every word they said.  
  
Since her back was to him and his head was bowed, Sara didn't see the bleak look that crossed Ian's face or the pain that touched his eyes at her words before he schooled his bearded features to their customary blankness once again.  
  
"What are you doing here, Joey? You should be in school. Are your grandparents and parents okay?" she asked the teenager.  
  
"I saw him put a weapon in that bag," Ian said quietly.  
  
"Shut up, Nottingham!" Sara snapped, without sparing him a glance. "I don't care what you think you saw."  
  
"I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't bring myself to go to Grandpa Joe," Joey Siri blurted out. "Please don't be mad at me, Aunt Sara!" Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and Sara felt him begin to tremble.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Joey. What couldn't you bring yourself to tell Grandpa Joe?" she asked.  
  
The boy started to reach for the heavy knapsack that Sara had almost forgotten she held in her hand, then hesitated when he felt rather than saw the tall, black-clad man in the shadows tense and realized that the man's chilling gaze was fixed balefully on him once again. Joey's eyes widened as he noticed that, although he hadn't seen him move a muscle, one of the man's gloved hands now held a very large gun at his side.  
  
"It . . . it's in there," the boy whispered, nodding toward the bag.  
  
Frowning in puzzlement, Sara unzipped the largest section of the knapsack and her heart sank as she caught sight of an unmistakable metallic shape. Furtively, she glanced toward the mouth of the alley, relieved to see that there weren't any witnesses to this little drama, and then pulled the boy deeper into the alleyway, almost bumping into a motionless Ian Nottingham in the process.  
  
"Joseph Paul Siri, Jr., what in God's name are you doing with a gun!?!" she hissed.  
  
Chapter 2.  
  
Haltingly, with many heartfelt apologies and admissions that he hadn't been thinking right and that as the grandson and nephew of a cop he ought to have known better, the boy that Sara Pezzini thought of as her nephew -- despite the fact they were not blood relatives -- told her how he had come to be in possession of a firearm.  
  
Apparently, Joey was in love. The object of his affection was a girl by the name of Amanda. Unfortunately, although Amanda returned Joey's affection, she had an even greater love for heroin. She was well and truly hooked and nothing Joey said could convince her that she needed to get help before her addiction killed her. Last night, he had followed her as she went to score, and had confronted her and the drug dealer. A scuffle had ensued, and the man had pulled a gun. Using the judo moves that he had learned from his Aunt Sara, Joey had disarmed the dealer, who fled, but not before saying that he was going to get another piece and come after Joey and Amanda.  
  
'And the Powers That Be don't think stiffer gun control laws are necessary,' Sara thought disgustedly as the now sobbing boy finished his tale. Sighing, she drew him into a comforting embrace, stroking his shaking shoulders and hair and assuring him that she wasn't mad at him, just very relieved that he and his girlfriend hadn't been killed or injured and disappointed that he hadn't thought to come to her before taking matters into his own hands.  
  
"Lady Sara."  
  
Sara jumped, having somehow completely forgotten that perhaps the world's deadliest assassin was standing just a few feet from her and her former captain's eldest grandchild.  
  
"What, Nottingham? Can't you see I'm kinda busy here?" she snapped at him, and then immediately regretted it as she saw that his bearded face wore the expression she had come to think of as "the kicked-puppy" - as incongruous as that was considering the man was a walking lethal weapon who could have snapped Joey's neck in the blink of an eye.  
  
She sighed, closing her eyes briefly and wondering for perhaps the millionth time why the dark-haired assassin irritated her so. Sure, he was stalking her and had gone all psycho commando on a 16-year-old boy who just happened to be her surrogate father's grandson, but in his eyes, he'd been justified. He'd seen the boy put a loaded weapon in his bag and then lay in wait for her in a dark alley. If she was brutally honest with herself, Sara knew she would have done the same thing if she were Nottingham's self- appointed stalker. 'No,' she reminded herself, 'not self-appointed.' She knew he was under orders to follow her from the man he called his master, billionaire Kenneth Irons, whose unholy obsession with the ancient weapon she wore on her wrist had precipitated his bodyguard's involvement in this family drama.  
  
"I'm sorry, Nottingham. Obviously, I'm a bit upset that my nephew is in trouble," she managed to say gruffly.  
  
"I'm in trouble?" Joey squeaked, alarmed. "I know I shouldn't have kept the gun, but I didn't use it. Are you going to arrest me?"  
  
"Lady Sara," Ian said again, "if you examine the weapon, perhaps you might receive some insight into where this dealer is, and then you could apprehend him. You might even be able to discern where he got the gun in the first place, which is where he will undoubtedly return to purchase another, if he has not already done so."  
  
'Great,' Sara thought, 'that's just what I need. To touch the weapon and have the Witchblade throw me into a vision in front of my nephew.'  
  
"I've got a better idea," she said. "I'll bring it to Vicky and have her run it for prints. This scumbag dealer is bound to have a rap sheet of priors a mile long, and Danny and me can go grab him up."  
  
"How will you explain to Detective Woo, or, for that matter, Captain Dante, that you have suddenly become interested in a case that is normally handled by the narcotics squad?" Ian asked quietly.  
  
Sara glared at the tall, dark-haired assassin. "Do you have a better idea?"  
  
Ian leaned closer to her and said very softly "All you have to do is ask, and it can easily become a homicide case."  
  
She felt a chill run up her spine as she saw by the cold gleam in his eyes that he was completely serious. And then the chill ran down her spine as she actually found herself mulling over his offer for the space of two heartbeats. She felt the Witchblade's avaricious glee at the murderous impulse that she quickly suppressed.  
  
"Um, no thank you, Nottingham. Tempting as that charmingly psychotic offer is, I think I'll pass seeing as I'm an officer of the law and all," she said.  
  
He shrugged. "The offer stands, my Lady. I would do anything to please you."  
  
"Uh, yeah. Right. Joey, why don't I take you to lunch and we'll figure out how you're going to explain to your parents why you played hooky today," she said, deeply unsettled by the sincerity in the black-clad man's guileless hazel eyes.  
  
"Aunt Sara, it's only 10:00 a.m."  
  
"Yeah, so? I like to take an early lunch from time to time." As she and the boy walked toward the warm sunlight, she glanced back uneasily. Of course, Ian Nottingham had vanished.  
  
"Whoa! Where'd that guy go? He just disappeared! Is he, like, a ninja or something?" Joey asked, following her gaze.  
  
"Or something." 'Like a freakin' psychopath,' she thought, and then immediately felt guilty for some reason.  
  
"He's really scary, but you didn't seem frightened of him until he whispered in your ear," the boy said astutely. "What did he say?"  
  
"Trust me, Joey, you don't want to know."  
  
More to come. I love and appreciate feedback. 


	2. Chapter 3

A Family Affair  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 3.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham crouched on the rooftop of the building across from the Greek diner that the Wielder and her so-called nephew had entered a few minutes ago. Through the high-powered rifle scope he always carried with him, he could see her and the boy she thought of as her nephew sitting at a table near the front. Showing no signs of the trauma he had suffered at Ian's hands in the alley beside the 11th Precinct mere minutes ago, the youth was talking animatedly while Lady Sara listened attentively.  
  
Replaying what had transpired in that alley in his head, Ian winced as he remembered Sara's anger and the scathing insults she had uttered. He wondered if his master had sensed the Wielder's ire through their link, and he heaved a sigh as he got his answer when the cell phone in his coat pocket began to vibrate.  
  
"Yes, Master?"  
  
"What did you do to upset the Wielder this time, young Nottingham?" Kenneth Irons urbane tones asked without preamble.  
  
"I mistakenly perceived a threat to her and acted accordingly," Ian replied.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"At 09:00 this morning, I spotted a teenaged youth entering the alley next to the 11th Precinct. He was acting strangely so I maintained surveillance on him. My suspicion appeared founded when I observed him retrieve a weapon from where he had obviously secreted it on a prior occasion. He then placed the weapon, a small-caliber handgun, in his knapsack, and waited in the alley. The Wielder came out of the precinct at 09:45 and the Witchblade appeared to alert her to the danger. The boy started to approach her. That is when I intervened, disarming him."  
  
"Is the child injured, Ian?"  
  
"No."  
  
"And I take it Sara Pezzini knows him."  
  
"Yes. He is the grandson and namesake of her former captain, Joseph Siri, Sr. I will have to update the photos in Wielder's dossier. The boy has changed considerably since the photograph I have of him was taken. I did not recognize him."  
  
"Yes, children rapidly change in appearance after a certain age," Irons murmured, thinking of a small boy with inquisitive hazel eyes and dark, curly hair who had once liked to dress up as a cowboy.  
  
"What was the boy doing with a firearm?"  
  
"He obtained it last night from a drug dealer who was supplying his girlfriend with narcotics. He followed her when she went to make a purchase, and the boy confronted the two of them. A scuffle ensued and the dealer pulled a weapon, but the boy managed to disarm him. The dealer has threatened him with retribution. La-- . . . Sara intends to bring the weapon to her friend the Medical Examiner, Vicky Po, and have it run for prints."  
  
Ian mentally cringed in anticipation of a harsh rebuke from his master at his slipup. He had almost called Sara "Lady Sara," and he knew Irons didn't like him to use that honorific when referring to the Wielder. His master strongly suspected that Ian was infatuated with the Witchblade's Wielder, and while this had amused him at first, Irons had lately begun to disapprove of any hint of impropriety in his bodyguard's interactions with the beautiful homicide detective.  
  
Thankfully, Irons had apparently decided to let the transgression pass this time. "Do you believe the boy's story, young Nottingham?"  
  
Ian frowned, putting the scope to his eye once again. He saw that the waitress had brought Sara the check. "I am not entirely convinced that events transpired exactly the way the boy told his 'aunt' they did."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"Something he said when Sara indicated she was upset that he was in trouble."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"He said 'I know I shouldn't have kept the gun, but I didn't use it,' which leads me to believe that the weapon was discharged at some point during the altercation, perhaps by the girlfriend or the drug dealer."  
  
"Hmmm. Undoubtedly, the Wielder is going to attempt to apprehend this dealer so that he does not have the opportunity to make good on his threat. Stay very close to her, Ian. Do whatever you have to to ensure that no harm comes to her. And keep me informed of events."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
Ian put the phone back in his pocket and saw Sara and her nephew leave the diner. They walked slowly down the block away from the precinct, the Wielder doing the talking this time and the boy listening. Then they hugged, and the boy ambled off down the street. Sara Pezzini stood there watching him go for several moments, lifting her hand in farewell when he glanced back one last time. Then she turned and looked up to where Ian crouched on the rooftop. Even without the scope, he could see the scowl that marred her lovely features. She flipped him the bird, and then marched away down the street in the opposite direction, back toward the 11th Precinct.  
  
Sighing heavily, Ian followed her. Obviously, she was still irked with him. Now that his master had all but given him permission to hunt down the drug dealer and eliminate the threat to Sara's nephew and, by association, to the Wielder herself, he allowed himself to remember the last thing he had said to her. Until now, his mind had flinched away from his declaration, or, more truthfully, from the fear he had glimpsed in her stunning green eyes when he'd said "I would do anything to please you." Why had he admitted that to her? As soon as he'd uttered the words, he had realized that he'd just given her yet one more reason to look at him like he was some kind of psychotic stalker.  
  
In his heart of hearts, Ian desperately wanted Sara to look at him and truly see him for what he was: her Protector and champion, a man that would gladly sacrifice his life for her and die content knowing he had done his duty. He longed for the day that the first thing she did when she saw him was smile instead of frown and finger her service weapon. It pained him more than he cared to admit that Sara hated the sight of him, that what she thought when she laid eyes on him was "psycho," "stalker," and, worst of all, "freak."  
  
Watching her hug the weeping boy had moved Ian more than he thought possible. What would it be like to find comfort in his Lady's arms? 'No,' Ian mentally chastised himself, 'that way lies danger. If my master ever found out the depths of my feelings for the Wielder . . .' He shuddered to think of Irons' rage and the severe punishment, perhaps even death, it would mean for him. His master would never allow his perfect killing machine to love anyone, least of all the current Wielder of the Witchblade.  
  
What Kenneth Irons failed to realized was that Ian Nottingham no longer had any choice in the matter. He had given his heart and very soul to the woman presently stomping down the sidewalk below from the moment he had first laid eyes on her. While he was still unquestionably loyal to the man who had made him who and what he was, Ian knew he would ultimately betray his master if Irons ever ordered him to harm the beautiful, green- eyed homicide detective. He would end his own life first.  
  
Surprisingly, this realization did not arouse the slightest feeling of trepidation or confusion in the assassin. He was not some mindless automaton that blindly followed orders. Ian held to a strict code of honor, one that had very little to do with his extensive training in special ops and several martial arts disciplines. Irons had insisted that his creation be capable of independent thought. Nottingham had been thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: philosophy, literature, art history. He was highly intelligent, fluent in a dozen languages, and possessed of an almost photographic memory. The genetic enhancements that had been done to his body gave him nearly superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. He could literally dodge bullets and leap tall buildings (well, at least from a height of six stories, which was the most he'd ever attempted to jump from). But he was also the latest in a long line of warrior Protectors to the Wielder of the Witchblade. It was to her that his true loyalty belonged, no matter what Kenneth Irons had tried to breed into him. His heart and soul were hers to do with what she would, did she but know it.  
  
"I would do anything to please you."  
  
And so Ian had laid bare his soul to her in that alley, removing the armor of deadly assassin and bodyguard to one of the world's richest men. The memory of the fear that had crept into her green, green eyes following his proclamation hurt. A lot.  
  
"My Lady, my Lady," he whispered as he watched her enter the 11th Precinct. "I am yours."  
  
  
  
More to come. I love feedback! 


	3. Chapter 4

A Family Affair Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 4.  
  
  
  
Kenneth Irons stood before the floor-to-ceiling-length windows in his penthouse office at Vorschlag Industries, but he didn't really see the spectacular panoramic view of New York City that his vantage point afforded him.  
  
The raised twin circles of the scar on the back of his right hand throbbed dully, letting him know that the woman who wore the Witchblade was still angry. Thankfully, it was no longer the white-hot fury he had sensed when his bodyguard and henchman Ian Nottingham had had the misfortune to threaten the well-being of a boy Sara Pezzini thought of as her nephew. The sizzling force of that ire had nearly caused Kenneth to cry out in pain, which would have been a tad embarrassing since he'd been in a meeting with Vorschlag's department heads at the time. As it was, he'd been unable to suppress a gasp of agony, and beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead as he had struggled not to writhe in his chair.  
  
Kenneth Irons hated to sweat. The only thing he hated more than sweating was for anyone to see him sweat. That, and not being in complete and total control of every single facet of his life. Fortunately, the meeting had been winding down, so his rather hasty departure hadn't seemed too odd, or so he hoped. After all, he was a very busy and important man.  
  
He had barely been able to wait until the rage he perceived through his psychic link with the Wielder had subsided to its current percolating resentment before calling young Nottingham for a report. A satisfied smile that didn't reach his cold, light-blue eyes turned up the corners of his sensuous lips as he thought about the ramifications of what his faithful servant had told him.  
  
So, Sara Pezzini possessed maternal instincts. Irons had once likened the Wielder to a lioness, and apparently she was willing to defend her young with all of the considerable ferocity of that great cat. This pleased him in that he saw it as something he could possibly use to control her at some point in the future.  
  
Kenneth allowed himself to feel a moment of pity for his bodyguard, who had borne the brunt of the Wielder's lacerating ire that morning. Ian had simply been following orders, but for some reason the very sight of the former Black Dragon seemed to tick Sara Pezzini off.  
  
It did not help matters that Nottingham was completely socially inept. Kenneth knew that his servant's attempts to gain the lovely homicide detective's trust had failed miserably as, unfortunately, had his own. Sara knew that Ian was Irons' man, and since she didn't trust the master, the loyal servant was also looked upon with dislike and distrust. And while it suited his purposes that the beautiful Wielder felt nothing but loathing, suspicion, and a healthy dose of fear where his bodyguard was concerned -- in light of Ian's growing infatuation with her, anything else would have been unconscionable -- Kenneth Irons was becoming more and more frustrated by his own inability to win over the young woman.  
  
Having studied her psychological profile, he knew that she found it difficult to let anyone into her inner circle. Her confidants numbered a select few, and those she did choose to befriend were first required to prove themselves worthy of her respect and trust. It galled Irons that he had thus far failed to gain the confidence and admiration of the beautiful Wielder who was the spitting image of his beloved Elizabeth Bronte, the last Wielder of the Witchblade. Here he was, a man of almost limitless wealth, influence, and power, whose Nordic good looks and urbane charm had won the hearts of some of the world's most beautiful women (and those of a few men), and he had yet to discover the means by which to seduce and thereby gain control of one stubborn but undeniably alluring New York City homicide detective.  
  
His repeated overtures of friendship and offers to help Sara better understand how to utilize the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist had been routinely rebuffed if not met with outright scorn. People simply did not speak to him in the insolent and sarcastic manner in which Sara Pezzini regularly did. Kenneth was finding it harder and harder to hide his impatience and anger at her recalcitrance whenever they chanced to meet.  
  
He was obsessed with the Witchblade, having once attempted to wield it himself many, many years ago. All he had to show for that moment of folly were the circular scars on the back of his hand and an often disquieting link to the current Wielder. Oh, yes, and a deceptively youthful appearance.  
  
No, if he could not control the woman who wore the Witchblade, he simply would have to find a way to take it from her. Perhaps the next Wielder would be more pliable. Unfortunately, separating the Witchblade from its chosen Wielder was far more difficult than one would think. Legend held that the Blade would one day abandon its Wielder in her hour of greatest need. However, that could be decades from now. Until then, the Witchblade was bonded to its Wielder at a cellular level, lending her superhuman strength, reaction time, and recuperative powers. It would also extend her lifespan far beyond that of a normal human being, much as it had done for him.  
  
Although Kenneth Irons looked to be somewhere in his early to mid- 30s, he was far, far older. Wearing the Witchblade just once for mere seconds had bestowed the gift of longevity upon him. But now that the ancient gauntlet had chosen a new Wielder, the effects were slowly but surely beginning to wane. The infusions of blood that Kenneth had been receiving from the painstakingly preserved body of the former Wielder, Elizabeth Bronte, were losing their potency. Irons would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood to survive, and as matters stood, that was something she would never willingly supply him with.  
  
The buzz of the office intercom intruded on his increasingly dark introspection. Irritated by the interruption, Kenneth crossed to the desk and stabbed the answer button.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Irons, but I have Russian President Putin on your secure line. He says it is a matter of some import," his administrative assistant said.  
  
Kenneth hesitated, partly because he was trying to decide if he felt like taking the call, partly to keep the man waiting because he could. Finally, he sighed audibly for his administrative assistant's benefit.  
  
"Very well. Put him through, Ingrid."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
For good measure, Irons waited another few moments before picking up the phone.  
  
"Vladimir! To what do I owe this honor?" he said in flawless Russian.  
  
"Mr. Irons, so glad you could take time out of your busy day to speak with me," came the reply in heavily accented English.  
  
"Please, Vlad, call me Kenneth! Have you forgotten our chess game? I believe it is your move," he said with false joviality, switching back to English.  
  
"Hmmm. Of course I have not forgotten, Kenneth. My apologies for the delay, but I am afraid I must beg for more time before I counter. As you know, things have been a little busy at the Kremlin of late." Putin paused after that major understatement, then continued with the reason for his call. "Kenneth, something that concerns you has come to my attention."  
  
Kenneth Irons listened with growing interest but no real alarm as the Russian president told him of a plot being hatched by one of the breakaway republics. Apparently, the military leadership of said republic had not been at all happy with the quality of the latest shipment of arms that Vorschlag Industries had supplied them with -- a transaction that, incidentally, had taken place with the complete approval of the man presently on the other end of the line. The republic's ranking general had quietly been assembling an impressive force comprised of ex-KGB agents and highly trained mercenaries from the Former Soviet Union. According to the intel President Putin had received, these men were en route to the U.S. aboard a Belgian-flagged container ship that was due to dock in New York harbor in two days. They were heavily armed and their target was none other than Irons himself.  
  
"You have a man among these mercenaries, Vlad, do you not?"  
  
"Of course, Kenneth."  
  
"Can you contact him after the ship docks?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Excellent," Kenneth purred, a plan forming as he spoke. "Here is some intel that I'd like you to give him."  
  
He proceeded to give the Russian president the name, home address, precinct, badge number, and description of a certain New York city homicide detective.  
  
"My personal bodyguard, Ian Nottingham, is currently on assignment following her," Kenneth finished by saying. Of course, he did not say why this was, and the Russian did not ask.  
  
"The lethal reputation of your . . . protégé is well known, Kenneth, but don't you think even he may find himself outnumbered, despite advance warning of the attack force?" the Russian leader inquired curiously.  
  
"Who said anything about advance warning?" Irons smirked.  
  
"You must have the utmost confidence in your man's survival skills, my friend."  
  
"He wouldn't be mine if I didn't," Kenneth said smugly. "But, Vladimir, you must stress to your man that the woman is not to be harmed. I would be most displeased if something were to happen to her."  
  
"Understood. Now, I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Good-bye, my friend."  
  
Hanging up the phone, Kenneth once again went to stand before the windows, absently rubbing the circular scars on his hand.  
  
"Watch over your precious Lady Sara well, young Nottingham," he said softly. "But watch your back, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. I am most appreciative of feedback. Thanks for the lovely words of encouragement I've gotten so far. 


	4. Chapter 5

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 5.  
  
Sara knew that the rude gesture she had just made at her stalker was childish, but she was in no mood to care. She was about to ask her friend Vicky Po, who just also happened to be the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner, to do her an enormous favor. However, first she stopped by her and Danny's office to drop off the promised coffees.  
  
Jake was sitting at her desk, apparently doing her paperwork for her, and Danny was diligently plugging away at his share.  
  
"Hey, Pez! Thought you'd decided to play hooky for the day and maybe go and catch some rays in Central Park or something," Jake cracked when she walked in.  
  
Sara winced at his innocent reminder of the thorny situation she was in. And to think, just over an hour ago she had been griping at having to do paperwork while thinking what a welcome reprieve the absence of new homicide cases was. Unbidden, Nottingham's deep, quiet voice as he made her an offer that she had found harder to refuse than she was comfortable with replayed in her mind. It seriously freaked her out to realize that all she would have had to do was nod, and the drug dealer who had threatened Joey Siri, Jr. would never trouble anyone in this world again. And Sara didn't even want to take the time out right now to think about the last thing the assassin had said to her. She had a feeling that if she let herself dwell on that little statement, she would zone out so bad, the trances the Witchblade occasionally threw her into would seem like a series of brief and pleasant daydreams.  
  
"Yeah, partner. We were about to send out a search party," Danny chimed in, his dark eyes taking note of her badly disguised agitation.  
  
"Yeah, well, there was, uh, a really, really long line," Sara said lamely, handing Jake his cappuccino and Danny his double espresso, heavy on the cream and sugar.  
  
"Uh, okay," Danny said, not missing the fact that his longtime partner and friend was avoiding his eyes. "Thanks for the java."  
  
"Yeah, thanks, Pez," Jake murmured, getting up from her desk.  
  
"Don't mention. Um, look, I need to drop by Vicky's office for a hot minute. Call me down there if something comes up while I'm gone, will ya?"  
  
"Sure thing, partner," Danny said, sipping his coffee appreciatively.  
  
"Say hi to Ms. Po for me," Jake said, sitting back down.  
  
"And what should I say when she says 'Jake who?'" Sara cracked as she headed back out the door.  
  
"Aww, man. That's a low blow," Jake groaned.  
  
Danny's amused chuckle was the last thing she heard as she made her way down the hall to the stairs.  
  
Vicky Po was just finishing up an autopsy when her friend walked into the morgue.  
  
"Hey, girlfriend. Wanna be a peach and grab that brain for me?" Vicky joked, her big brown eyes sparkling with laughter at Sara from behind the clear, protective facemask she wore.  
  
Sara wrinkled her nose at the organ in question, which sat on a stainless steel scale.  
  
"Uh, not right now," she said, looking away quickly.  
  
"Wimp," Vicky teased. "What can I do you for, Detective Pezzini?"  
  
Sara idly thumbed through the file that she assumed belonged to the victim who lay on a nearby table - well most of him did, anyway -- as the Medical Examiner finished up.  
  
"I have a huge favor to ask you, Vic," she said, not really processing what she was reading.  
  
"Ask away," Vicky said, removing her soiled latex gloves and smock and disposing of them in a container marked "biohazard." Taking off her facemask, she bent down, opened a file cabinet drawer, and took out her purse, from which she removed a tube of lip gloss.  
  
"Gotta look good for the stiffs, eh Vic?" Sara teased, watching her begin to apply the lip gloss with the aid of a mirrored compact.  
  
"Or a certain blond homicide detective," Vicky smirked, winking at her best friend. She nodded toward the corpse on the table. "He caught that case this morning, and I expect him to stop by for a progress report any minute now."  
  
"Oh, ho! Well, it just so happens that a certain blond detective told me to say hi for him when I saw you," Sara informed her archly. "Wait a sec, we are talking about Orlinsky here, right?" she teased.  
  
Now it was Vicky Po's turn to wrinkle her nose. "Does Orlinsky even have enough hair left on his head to determine its color?" she asked.  
  
Sara cackled appreciatively at her friend's cleverness.  
  
"Seriously, Sara. Did Jake really tell you to say hi for him?"  
  
"Cross my heart," Sara said, suiting action to words, "and hope to die."  
  
"Hmmm." Vicky's face took on a dreamy quality for a moment and a small, satisfied smile touched her full lips, but then she frowned, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Didn't you just say you needed to ask me for a favor?"  
  
Sara sighed as reality intruded on what had been shaping up to be a very interesting bout of girl talk. After first glancing out into the hallway to make sure nobody was about to intrude on their privacy, she reached behind her and took out a small but surprisingly heavy bandanna- wrapped object from where it had been nestled in the small of her back under her leather jacket and t-shirt.  
  
"I need you to run this for prints, but not to write up an official report on your findings," Sara said handing the gun to her friend.  
  
Snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves, Vicky carefully unwrapped the small but malevolent-looking weapon. Expertly, she flicked open the cylinder, holding the handgun up to the light and peering into the six-shot chamber. "Hmmm, .22-caliber, serial number filed off, of course," she murmured. She sniffed the weapon. "It's been fired recently, did you know that? Two rounds are missing."  
  
Sara felt her heart sink. "No, I didn't."  
  
"Do you wanna tell me how you came by it?" Vicky asked quietly, placing the weapon in a metal tray, which she then put in the bottom of the same drawer that her purse was in. Closing and locking the file cabinet, she turned and handed Sara's bandanna back to her.  
  
Sara found herself pouring out her nephew's sordid tale to her dearest friend, leaving out Nottingham's part in it, of course.  
  
"Wow. Poor kid. His heart's in the right place, that's for sure. And it was awful brave of him to come to you like he did," Vicky said when Sara finished talking. "I'll get on this as soon as I finish writing up my findings on that poor sonofabitch over there." She nodded toward the dead man once again.  
  
"So, this is Jake and Orlinsky's vic, hunh?" Sara walked over and picked up the guy's toe tag, which read 'John Doe.'  
  
"Yep. He came in bright and early this morning. Body was found dumped under the FDR drive, near the South Street Seaport."  
  
"How'd he buy it?"  
  
"Two shots to the head at close range with a small-caliber weapon."  
  
"Hunh. Well, let me know what you come up with on that gun as soon as you can, okay?"  
  
"Sure thing, girlfriend."  
  
But as Sara turned to leave, her fingers brushed the cold, lifeless toe of the homicide victim, and the Witchblade immediately plunged her into a vision.  
  
Sara was stunned to see her nephew's angry face as he confronted her.  
  
"Get out of here, and if you know what's good for you, I won't catch you selling around here again," Joey snarled. In remarkably steady hands, he was clutching the very same weapon Sara had just given Vicky Po, the muzzle leveled at the chest of the person he was facing.  
  
With a jolt, Sara realized that she was witnessing the events of last night from the perspective of the drug dealer --- the now very dead drug dealer lying cold on the table in the 11th Precinct's morgue.  
  
Suddenly, a pale, blond, rail-thin girl wrested the gun from Joey's hands.  
  
"Amanda, what the hell are you doing? Give it back!" Joey yelled.  
  
"I know what I'm doing, Joey," Amanda said, waving the gun around wildly. "Give me your stash and whatever money you have on you, Paco, or I swear to God I'm gonna shoot you in the nuts," the girl said to the man whose eyes Sara was looking out of.  
  
"Bitch, you must be crazy!" Sara heard a Spanish-accented voice say.  
  
Suddenly, the unbelievably loud report of a gun shattered the night air. Luckily for Sara/Paco, the round was wild.  
  
"Holy shit, Amanda! Are you nuts? Now, the cops are gonna show!" Joey swore.  
  
"I'm not gonna miss, next time, Paco," Amanda said coldly, her badly shaking hands in all likelihood giving lie to her promise. "Now, give me your shit and the money!"  
  
"You crazy bitch. You and your boyfriend are gonna pay for this. I'm gonna get another piece and find your asses," Sara/Paco snarled, emptying her/his pockets onto the ground.  
  
"Now run away, you pussy," Amanda screamed. She raised the gun in the air and fired another shot. "Don't make me shoot your ass!"  
  
With one last venomous look at the teens, Sara/Paco did just that.  
  
The vision fast-forwarded. Sara glimpsed a street sign, and then found herself-as-Paco walking up the steps of a dilapidated tenement house. The number on the building said "303." There was a sticker on the padlocked plywood doors that read "Condemned, by Order of the Dept. of Buildings." But the padlock was not fastened. Sara/Paco unhooked it, and entered the building. She/he heard the chain rattle behind her/him as somebody, probably a lookout, put the chain and padlock back in place.  
  
Voices could be heard coming from one of the apartments at the back of the first floor. Sara/Paco approached them.  
  
"Hey, Paco, mi amigo! What have you got for me tonight?"  
  
Four men sat around a table in what had been the apartment's kitchen. A battery-operated lamp lit the room, revealing a pile of money and drugs on the table. The man who had greeted Sara/Paco was Latino, in his mid- 30s, with a tattoo of a cobra on his forearm and a distinctive pock-marked face. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of tinted glasses. Two of the other men were African-American, and the fourth was Caucasian.  
  
"Uh, we got trouble, Angel," Sara/Paco stammered nervously.  
  
"'We,' hunh?" Angel said with a chilling smile. "Paco, my man, you not gonna give me bad news, are you? You know I don't like bad news."  
  
Sara/Paco proceeded to blurt out the story, embellishing it to make it seem like Joey had a black belt in karate, and that that was the only reason he'd gotten the drop on him. Unfortunately, he also gave detailed descriptions of Joey and Amanda, plus their first names, to his boss.  
  
One of the black men burst out laughing. "Dammmmn, Paco, you got shaken down by a bitch and her dawg, yo!" The other black guy and the white guy joined in the laughter.  
  
"Shut the fuck up, G. I'm gonna get me another piece and make that little junky bitch and her boyfriend pay!" Sara/Paco snarled.  
  
Angel hadn't laughed. In fact, all he'd done was stare at Sara-as- Paco, much like the snake whose likeness he had on his arm might stare at its next meal.  
  
"How are you gonna pay for your new piece, hunh, Paco?" Angel asked, picking up one of the bundles of money and idly fanning the bills.  
  
"Uh, I wuz hoping you could lend me the money. A new shipment of guns just hit the street, and my man can hook me up for $500."  
  
"Let me get this straight, you come in here telling me you lost most of your product and all of your take to a couple of teenagers and you want me to loan you some money so you can buy another piece and go after them with it. Do I got it right?" Angel asked incredulously.  
  
"Yeah, I'll get the little bitch to tell me where she stashed the stuff and the money before I do her. I'll get your shit back, Angel, I swear to God!" Sara/Paco sniveled.  
  
"Now, Paco, we're all businessmen here. And every businessman knows that killing the clientele ain't good business. Have you met my boy, Tommy?"  
  
Sara/Paco was a little thrown by the sudden change of subject. "Uh, no."  
  
"Tommy, Paco. Paco, Tommy. Yeah, Tommy's gonna be taking over a nice piece of turf that I don't think is being worked to its fullest potential," Angel said, hooking an arm around the white guy's shoulders in false camaraderie.  
  
"Oh, yeah? Where at?" Sara/Paco asked.  
  
'Rut-roh,' Sara thought. Obviously, Paco was not the brightest. Or hadn't been.  
  
"Avenue A, that four-block stretch south of Stuytown."  
  
"Hey, man, that's my turf," Sara/Paco objected.  
  
Suddenly, Angel pulled a handgun that was nearly identical to the one Sara had just given to Vicky Po.  
  
"Consider yourself demoted," Angel said, and fired twice in rapid succession.  
  
Sara/Paco had time for a brief shock of disbelief but, oddly, no pain, before the world faded to black.  
  
Sara came back to the here and now with a small gasp.  
  
The petite, curly haired ME was gazing at her friend in obvious concern.  
  
"Are you all right, Sara? You kind of zoned out there for a minute."  
  
"Uh, yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I'm just real worried about Joey. Tell me, did you get the slugs outta this guy's head yet?"  
  
"Just fragments. At close range, the skull tends to make mincemeat out of small-caliber bullets like this guy caught. I might be able to get a ballistics report on one of the larger fragments, but it's doubtful. Why?"  
  
"Oh, just wondering. I'll speak to you later, Vic."  
  
"Later."  
  
'Boy,' Sara thought as she slowly made her way back upstairs, 'this day just keeps getting better.' She knew that without bullets to compare to the weapon that that her friend now had in her possession, there was no way to prove that the gun hadn't been used to commit the murder. She also knew it wouldn't be long before Paco's body was identified. As she had told Joey and Nottingham that morning, the drug dealer was bound to have a rap sheet a mile long, which meant his fingerprints were on file. And if Vicky Po found Paco's fingerprints on the weapon, it wouldn't be long until she put two and two together. Sara couldn't in all good conscience ask her friend to keep the gun out of evidence after that.  
  
She was going to have to have another talk with her nephew, who, ironically, had opted to report to school late rather than miss a trigonometry test. And she was also going to have to convince him to turn in his strung-out girlfriend. But first she had to figure out a way to reach out to someone in the 11th Precinct's narcotics task force. If she could orchestrate a bust on Angel without stepping on anybody's toes, with a great deal of luck, he just might still have the murder weapon on him, letting Joey and Amanda off the hook. Suddenly, she remembered Danny mentioning that a friend of his from his days in the academy worked in narcotics. Much as she hated having to involve yet another person in this mess, she knew that she could trust her partner never to betray her confidence.  
  
"So, how's our favorite Medical Examiner," Danny asked as Sara came back in and hung up her leather jacket.  
  
Sara was relieved to see that Jake had left. "As fine as always. Ya know, I do believe she has a thing for a certain ex-champion surfer with a bad haircut," Sara said, taking her seat.  
  
"Oh yeah? Hmmm. Vicky likes dumb blondes. Who woulda thunk it?"  
  
Sara glanced toward Captain Bruno Dante's office. She saw that McCartey and Orlinsky were in there behind closed doors. No doubt updating the captain on their current case.  
  
Sara got up and closed the door to her and Danny's office, prompting a curious look from her partner.  
  
"Danny, who do you know in narcotics you could call in a favor from?" she said.  
  
The slim, handsome Asian detective's dark eyes studied his friend and partner for a moment before he answered her question. "You remember me telling you about Mike Morgan? We were at the academy together. He's a narcotics detective. What's up, Sara?"  
  
"Think you could tear yourself away from your paperwork for about half an hour?" she asked wryly.  
  
"I'll do you one better. How bout I buy you lunch? That way, there'll be no interruptions -- unless, of course, business picks up around here."  
  
Sara grinned, grabbing her jacket. "Great. I like to take an early lunch from time to time."  
  
More to come. Keep that feedback coming! It inspires me! 


	5. Chapter 6

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just playing! Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 6.  
  
  
  
Every few minutes, Sara Pezzini glanced up at the clock on the wall of her and Danny Woo's office. She had long since given up trying to concentrate on the pile of paperwork in front of her.  
  
It was almost 2:30. Danny had been gone for more than an hour, and if he didn't get back soon, Sara was going to be hard-pressed to meet Joey after school. She didn't want to risk having the discussion she needed to have with him at his home, where his parents or younger sister might intrude.  
  
Miracle of miracles, the homicide department had remained quiet. Sara hoped that it would stay that way until she could get away and meet up with her nephew.  
  
'Finally!' she thought as she spotted Danny in the hallway. But just before he could enter their office, Captain Dante called him into his office.  
  
"Petzini, care to join us?" Dante asked sarcastically, when Sara didn't immediately get up from her desk.  
  
Mentally rolling her eyes at his deliberate mangling of her last name, Sara slouched into his office.  
  
She didn't like Bruno Dante, and she knew the feeling was mutual. Sara always got the feeling that Dante resented her for being a woman in what he considered to be a man's world. His attitude toward her bordered on open contempt, and Sara gave as good as she got, barely bothering to hide the fact that she thought the man was an idiot. On top of that, she strongly suspected he was on the take.  
  
"What's up, Cap?" Danny asked.  
  
"I want you and Petzini to lend a hand to Orlinsky and McCartey on the case they're working, seeing as we seem to be a little slow lately," Dante smirked, as if he thought his quip was the very height of cleverness.  
  
This time, Sara really did roll her eyes. Unfortunately, her captain chose that moment to look at her.  
  
"Am I boring you, Detective? Do you have something better to do?"  
  
"No, sir," Sara said sullenly.  
  
"The vic's name is Paco Gutierrez. Early this morning, his body was found dumped under the FDR Drive, near the Seaport. Two bullets to the head. ME says he'd been dead maybe 12 hours when he was found. He was a dealer, mostly smack, and his turf was a stretch along Avenue A, about four blocks south of Stuytown. Witnesses saw him working his corner last night. Business was brisk, but we got a witness says he saw two kids hassling Gutierrez right around the time he would have bought it. One of our squad cars responded to a report of shots fired in the vicinity around 8:00 p.m. last night, but the officers didn't see anybody when they got there. I want you and Petzini to canvas the nabe, asking if anybody has seen two kids fitting these descriptions." Captain Dante pushed a couple of sheets of paper across his desk toward them.  
  
"Captain, mind if I ask why we're being put on this case when Danny and me still have a shitload of paperwork that needs processing, and Jake and me have four cases we're still supposed to be working?" Sara asked, trying to control her panic at how the trouble Joey Siri, Jr. was in seemed to be growing exponentially.  
  
"Nice mouth, Petzini, and yeah, I do mind," Dante sneered at her. "Dismissed."  
  
Danny followed Sara from their boss's office into their own, closing the door behind them.  
  
"What a jerk!" Sara huffed, dropping down in her chair and rubbing her hands over her face tiredly.  
  
After glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dante was otherwise occupied, Danny slid a manila interoffice envelop onto her desk before going around to his side of their double desk and sitting down.  
  
"Your guy's named Angel Medina, and he's a scary dude, Pez. Suspicion of drug trafficking, murder, and assault with a deadly weapon. He did his first stretch at Rikers at age 15 for armed robbery. He then did a two-year stretch for aggravated assault. The vic was his own father, who he beat into a coma."  
  
"Let me guess: Oedipus complex?" Sara muttered, opening the envelop and looking at the mugshot and rap sheet of the man she had "witnessed" kill Paco Gutierrez.  
  
"My boy Mike in narcotics said Medina is the supplier and collector for the Alphabet City territory. Narcotics has been trying to get to him for a while, but he's highly suspicious and tends to shoot first and ask questions later. Look Sara, Mike's my friend and all, but he got kind of antsy when I gave him this guy's description. I get the strong feeling narcotics and the DEA might have Medina in their sights. Mike hinted that they might have finally got a guy close to him. And now Dante's assigned us to work this case with Orlinsky and Jake. I don't think that's a coincidence, do you?"  
  
Suddenly, the Witchblade warmed on her wrist, and Sara hastily dropped her right hand into her lap as she saw that the stone was glowing brightly. A brief flash from the vision it had shown her that morning in the morgue was projected onto her mind's eye, like some kind of weird slideshow. In the first slide, she saw the laughing face of the man Angel Medina had only identified as Tommy. Next slide: Tommy's face as he listened to Paco's story. Next slide: His startled expression as Angel pulled a gun. Next slide: Over the shoulder of Angel Medina, his shocked face as Medina squeezed the trigger twice. This last picture faded to black as though the projector's lamp had burned out. End of slideshow.  
  
"Everything's connected," Sara murmured, giving her head a little shake. "You wanna lay odds the inside guy is our witness?"  
  
"That would be my guess, partner. Except how would he know that Paco got shaken down by Joey's girl and how would he have their descriptions?" Danny paused, and Sara could practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Unless, he was there when Paco reported back to Angel with the bad news about losing his stash and take. Being that he's a hotheaded psychopath, that would mean Angel is most likely our shooter."  
  
Her partner's dark eyes met hers, his concern for her and her surrogate family clearly visible in them.  
  
"Sara, I know Joey's a good kid. But it's going to look awful bad for him if the gun comes back with his and Paco's prints on it. If narcotics and the DEA have finally managed to get a guy next to Angel, I doubt they're gonna be willing to have him blow his cover just so he can testify that Joey and Amanda didn't off Paco. Plus, Angel is going to be looking to tie up loose ends, too. You better give Joey a heads up."  
  
"Yeah, I intend to." She glanced at the clock. "Oh, shit! I gotta go if I'm gonna catch him at his school! Cover for me?" she said, grabbing her jacket and helmet.  
  
"Always, partner," Danny said, pulling on his jacket, too. "I'll take an unmarked car and pretend to canvas the neighborhood where Paco dealt so Dante doesn't get suspicious." Then his eyes met hers speculatively. "Tell me one thing, Pez. How did you know about this Angel Medina guy before Paco's body was even identified?"  
  
"Oh, um, Joey must have mentioned the name," she said lamely as they walked out together. Sara was relieved when Dante didn't notice that she was taking her helmet with her, which would have alerted him to the fact that the partners were going their separate ways.  
  
"And where did he hear it from?"  
  
"I'll ask him that when I see him. See you later." And she beat a hasty retreat.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
Several minutes later, Sara parked her Buell a couple of blocks from the pedestrian bridge that spanned West Street, on the other side of which was Stuyvesant High School. She started walking briskly in the direction of the school.  
  
But she had only gone about a block when the Witchblade imparted a distressingly familiar warm swirl to her wrist, and Sara felt her whole body instantly tense up.  
  
"My Lady, a word?"  
  
"You wanna word, Nottingham?" she rounded on the tall, black-clad assassin furiously. "Here's one for you: Stay the hell away from me!"  
  
She glared at him, daring him to point out that that had been more than one word.  
  
Wisely, he remained silent. In fact, he just stood there, head down, eyes on the ground, with that damn pitiful look on his face.  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, enough with the kicked-puppy already!"  
  
'Wait a sec, did I just say that out loud?' Sara thought. 'Get a grip, Pezzini, you're losing it!'  
  
Nottingham's expression changed to one of confusion, and his hazel eyes looked at her from under his long, thick black lashes.  
  
"I have never abused a puppy, Sara, so I am not certain I know what -- "  
  
"Look," she cut him off, "I'm kind of in a hurry, so just give me your latest cryptic tidbit and then go away."  
  
"The Witchblade gave you a vision this morning," the assassin said, surprisingly without prevarication.  
  
"Your owner tell you that?" Sara snipped, glancing over her shoulder toward the pedestrian bridge. A steady stream of kids were starting to cross it.  
  
"No. I sensed it," Nottingham said softly, making rare direct eye contact with her. "We are connected, you and I, my Lady."  
  
Sara frowned up at him. "'Connected,' hunh? What is that, stalker- speak for you'd like to nail me?"  
  
She was fascinated to see a flush of red creep along the high cheekbones of the dark-haired man, whose eyes were once again firmly fixed on the ground. 'My God, I do believe I made him blush!' Sara thought.  
  
"The vision showed you what really happened last night, did it not?" Nottingham persisted.  
  
Sara made an impatient gesture. "Yeah, so? By the way, you're off the hook as far as that drug dealer Joey got the gun from. Somebody put two bullets in his brain last night, saving you the trouble. Now, as much fun as this has been, I've really got to go," she said, turning to leave.  
  
But Nottingham's big, black-clad frame spun in front of her so fast, she was forced to stop in mid-step or run into him.  
  
"I think the Witchblade's vision allowed you to see the face of his killer," he said, green-shot brown eyes briefly meeting her outraged green ones again.  
  
"Yeah, up close and personal. Now back off, Nottingham, I've got to go and talk to my nephew!" Sara growled, putting her hand on her gun.  
  
"There is grave danger across that bridge, my Lady. Perhaps I should accompany you," Kenneth Irons' bodyguard said, spinning gracefully to her side.  
  
Sara didn't move. "I assume you're speaking metaphorically, Nottingham, because after you practically flattened him this morning, Joey lays eyes on you and takes off running the other way."  
  
"Perhaps if I offer him an apology for my hasty behavior in the alley this morning, I can make amends," the exceedingly strange man said thoughtfully.  
  
This time it was Sara who spun in front of Ian. "Listen here, Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger," she said, shaking an angry finger in his startled face, "you stay the hell away from my nephew! He's probably gonna wake up screaming tonight because of you!"  
  
"I am under strict orders to stay close to you, Lady Sara," Nottingham said quietly, assuming his weird parade rest stance, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. "So, if you are going to converse with your nephew, I will, of a necessity, be close by. I am sorry this fact is upsetting to you."  
  
"Ohhh, 'strict orders,'" Sara mocked, then winced when the kicked- puppy made another appearance. She heaved a sigh. "Oh, all right. Just hurry up and do your ninja tough guy disappearing act, and then stay out of sight. Joey's had enough trauma today."  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara."  
  
Sara closed her eyes tight as she heard a familiar voice right behind her. Blindly, she raised a clenched fist and lightly bounced it off the black-clad wall that was Nottingham's chest. 'Still there, of course,' she thought resignedly, failing to notice the assassin's swiftly indrawn breath at the physical contact. 'And this nightmare day from hell just keeps getting worse.'  
  
She turned around rigidly, pasting a smile on her face. "Hey, Joey. I was just on my way to see you. Funny, how you found me first, hunh?"  
  
"Yeah." Joey's eyes, only slightly freaked and wide, went beyond her. "Hey, Mr. Nottingham."  
  
"Hello, young Joseph. I think I owe you an apology for acting a bit hastily in the alley next to the 11th Precinct this morning," her psycho stalker said in his deep, quiet voice.  
  
"That's okay, I know you were just looking out for my Aunt Sara," Joey stunned Sara by replying. "It must of looked pretty bad, me putting that you-know-what in my knapsack and then waiting for her to come outside."  
  
"I am glad that you understand and that I had this opportunity to apologize," Nottingham said.  
  
A bunch of high school kids walked by their tense little group, throwing them curious looks.  
  
"Okay! Right. Now that that's settled, walk me back to my bike, Joey. We need to talk." Sara hooked an arm around the boy's thin shoulders and they started walking back the way she had come, trying their best to ignore the tall, black-clad form shadowing them.  
  
"Joey, Paco is dead. Somebody shot him twice in the head last night," Sara said bluntly.  
  
The teenager gasped. "Oh my God."  
  
"Look, Joey, tests showed that the gun you gave me had been fired recently. Two rounds were missing."  
  
Joey started to shake his head. "I swear to you, Amanda didn't shoot him. She grabbed the gun from me, but she fired one shot into a wall and the other shot in the air to scare Paco off. He ran away, I swear to God. I know I should have told you this before, but I didn't want Amanda to get into trouble," the boy said frantically.  
  
"Joey, she's a junky. She's already in deep trouble, and now she's taken you down with her. Where is she? Did she come to school today or was she too high on the stuff she shook Paco down for?" Sara knew she was being harsh, but she was determined to protect her 16-year-old nephew from the possibly deadly consequences of his strung-out girlfriend's rash actions.  
  
"How did you know she took his stash?" Joey asked, stricken eyes brimming with tears.  
  
"She was looking to score when you confronted Paco and her, right?" Sara said, thinking fast. "A junky will do anything to get their fix, Joey, anything. Always remember that."  
  
Now the boy's tears did fall. "I just want her to get help, Aunt Sara. She's only 15. She deserves another chance at a normal life. Maybe getting busted with the drugs and drug money will force her to get the help she needs," he said sadly.  
  
Sara relented, and rubbed his back comfortingly. "Look, kiddo, since she's so young and this is most likely her first offense, she'll probably get probation and be remanded to a drug rehab facility. If she can kick her habit and stay clean, her record will be expunged by the time she heads to college."  
  
"She lives in Stuyvesant Town, not that far from where she went to cop last night. But I want to be there when you talk to her," Joey told her.  
  
"Joey, I don't think that's such a good idea. Besides, I'm on my bike and I don't have an extra helmet with me," Sara tried dissuading him with. "I want you to go straight home. I'll call you there later and let you know how it went."  
  
The boy's jaw got a stubborn jut to it. "I don't want her to go through this alone. Stuytown is not that far from here. I can jump on the subway and be there in 15 minutes."  
  
"She won't be alone. Her parents will be there. I don't want you to get any more involved in this than you already are, Joey."  
  
But he shook his head. "Her parents both work until 5:00-5:30, and her older brother is away at college. It'll just be Amanda there for the next few hours. I'm coming, Aunt Sara," he insisted.  
  
"Lady Sara, with your permission, I will escort Joseph to the young lady's house," Nottingham suddenly spoke up. "If you would like to go ahead on your motorcycle, we will meet you there."  
  
Sara frowned as she noticed that he was several yards behind them, and she wondered how he could have possibly eavesdropped on their low- voiced conversation from that far away. She narrowed her fierce green eyes at the black-clad assassin suspiciously before turning to look at Joey again.  
  
"Are you okay with that?" she asked him softly.  
  
"Yeah." He wiped away the tears that streaked his face and managed a weak smile. "I'll probably be the safest kid in Manhattan."  
  
"Okay then. I'll meet you on the southwest corner of First Avenue and 14th Street in 20 minutes," Sara said, swinging her leg over her Buell. She glanced at Ian Nottingham before putting on her helmet.  
  
"What about your 'strict orders,' Nottingham? You're kind of pushing the envelop here, aren't ya?" she said disparagingly.  
  
"We will not be parted long, my Lady," the assassin said softly, his warm gaze disturbingly direct, and the tiniest hint of a smile turned up the corner of his lips for a nanosecond.  
  
Sara blinked, wondering if she had imagined that smile. "Uh, yeah. Right. See you in a few, Joey."  
  
The engine of the Buell roared to life, and moments later she was headed across the southern tip of Manhattan and then uptown.  
  
  
  
More to come. Keep that feedback coming! 


	6. Chapter 7

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 7.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham walked along the sidewalk, eyes on the ground directly in front of him as was his habit. Joseph Siri, Jr. walked beside him.  
  
He could feel the boy's curious eyes on him. Ian was used to getting stares whenever he was out and about during daylight hours. His height, head-to-toe black attire, and faint but perceptible air of menace combined to make him stand out. He almost never made eye contact with those he passed on the street. Long ago, Ian had learned that his gaze made most people extremely uncomfortable. That was one of the reasons he rarely ventured out before dusk if he could avoid it.  
  
Only under the cover of darkness, when the shadows were at their inkiest, did Ian really feel comfortable being in public. Then, if he did not wish it, nobody noticed him. He was just another shadow, silent and insubstantial. Unless, of course, you were someone Kenneth Irons wanted dead. In that case, many an unfortunate victim's last thought had been that the shadows had come alive, bringing swift and nearly soundless death with them.  
  
Ian knew that earlier today, in that alley next to the 11th Precinct, the youth presently walking along beside him had come within a hair's breadth of joining those poor souls in oblivion. He doubted that the boy realized just how perilously close he had come to meeting his maker, or else he would not be here, calmly heading toward the subway, accompanied by perhaps the deadliest assassin on Earth.  
  
Normally, Nottingham would have driven to their destination; his car was parked just a few blocks from Stuyvesant High School. However, he sensed that the youngster's trust in him was tenuous at best and probably wouldn't extend to the forced intimacy of a car ride, albeit a brief one. So, the subway it was.  
  
Ian had been surprised when his offer to escort the young man to his girlfriend's home had been accepted. It had been a very long time since anything had truly surprised Ian Nottingham. Actually, that was not entirely accurate. His first real shock of the day had come when the Wielder had scolded him, complete with a finger being shaken in his face. But that paled in comparison to his absolute astonishment when she had touched him.  
  
Unconsciously, he placed his gloved right hand on his chest, precisely where Lady Sara's fist had made contact. He had been certain that she'd noticed his gasp of amazement. But apparently she hadn't. He was enormously grateful Sara had failed to realize just how profoundly her touch had affected him. Even now, thinking back on it, his pulse rate sped up and his heart started pounding. It would never do for the beautiful Wielder to realize just how much power she had over him. Nothing but pain and anguish -- his -- could come from that discovery.  
  
"My Aunt Sara's pretty tough on the outside, but she's a softy on the inside," the boy next to him said suddenly.  
  
"She never shows that side of herself to me," Ian said wistfully, and then immediately wished he hadn't. What the hell was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a ninja tough guy, as Sara had referred to him earlier, yet here he was sounding like a lovesick fool. In front of a teenager no less.  
  
"She's very, um, self-sufficient. You know, the independent type. She likes to think she can take care of herself, that she doesn't need anybody looking out for her," Joey told him.  
  
"I had noticed that aspect of her personality," Ian said dryly.  
  
"So, why do you? Look out for her," the boy clarified at Ian's blank look.  
  
"Because it is what I was born to do," he replied. "I would gladly die for her."  
  
For the first time since that morning in the alley, Ian made eye contact with the teen.  
  
Joseph Siri, Jr. felt mesmerized by the intensity of the tall, black- clad man's gaze. His large eyes were an unusual golden brown with patches of green and smaller flecks of gold throughout the irises. But whereas the boy had glimpsed the promise of death in those eyes earlier that day in that alley next to the 11th Precinct, he now felt as if the man's soul were exposed, and what he was being allowed to see was an ancient and timeless devotion. The object of that undying loyalty was the woman he called his Aunt Sara, and although Joey knew that Nottingham's frank explanation didn't even begin to tell the whole story, he simply nodded, taking his words at face value.  
  
"I'm glad she has you watching her back," Joseph surprised Ian by saying.  
  
'Well, I guess today must be my day for surprises,' Ian thought, a smile briefly quirking his lips. 'That makes four times.'  
  
"Don't get me wrong," the youth hastened to add. "Aunt Sara can handle herself pretty damn good. But she doesn't have eyes in the back of her head. Her dad was a cop, too. He was killed in the line of duty when Sara was younger than me. He was gunned down, shot in the back. That was when she came to live with Grandpa Joe and Grandma Marie. Grandpa used to be best friends with Aunt Sara's dad, and when Sara joined the force, he was her captain, up until he retired a couple of months ago."  
  
"What was Sara like as a girl?" Ian found himself asking the young man.  
  
"Well, I was pretty young when she came to live with my grandparents. But she used to baby-sit me and my little sister from time to time when she was in high school. She moved out of my grandparents' house after she got accepted to the police academy, but she would still come by our house on most weekends. She taught me some Judo and a little boxing, and one summer she even taught me how to ride my bike. We don't see her as much since Grandpa Joe retired," Joey said, and now it was he who sounded wistful.  
  
"She is extremely dedicated to her job and works very long hours," Ian felt compelled to defend his Lady. "You should be very proud of your aunt, young Joseph. She is an excellent role model."  
  
Joey grinned. "You like her a lot, don't you?" It wasn't really a question.  
  
Ian was mortified to feel a blush redden his checks. Hastily, he surreptitiously removed the band that held his hair in its customary neat club at the back of his head, letting the long, sable waves hide his downturned, burning face.  
  
"It's okay, I won't spill your secret," the boy assured him.  
  
For some reason, Ian knew he could trust him to be as good as his word.  
  
They reached the subway and descended into it. Joey used his school pass and Ian used a token to enter the turnstiles.  
  
"I admire your aunt's spirit tremendously," Ian admitted as they stood on the platform waiting for the uptown train. "She is fascinatingly complex and a woman of impeccable honor."  
  
"Yeah, a lot of guys are attracted to her 'spirit,'" Joey smirked.  
  
Ian frowned, darting the boy a sharp look through the curtain of his hair. "Who are these 'guys,' and by 'a lot,' precisely how many do you mean?" he said very softly.  
  
"Oh, um, it was just, uh, a f-figure of speech, M-Mr. Nottingham," Joey stuttered, his heart skipping a beat at the fierce frowning look the older man shot him. "I don't think Aunt Sara is seeing anyone special at the moment."  
  
"Oh." Ian cleared his throat unnecessarily, aware that he'd inadvertently frightened the boy again. "Look, here comes the train!" 'Wow! Gee! Shut up, now, Nottingham.'  
  
The roar of the subway train made conversation impossible for the next couple of minutes, to Ian's profound relief. When the doors opened, they boarded a fairly crowded car.  
  
Immediately, Ian went to stand against the door at one end of the car, somehow threading his way through the other passengers without touching any of them. His piercing gaze swept the car briefly, ensuring that there was no immediate threat present. Joey followed with a lot more difficulty, unable to keep from jostling a few people owing to the swaying motion of the train.  
  
'How the heck did he do that?' the teenager wondered silently. He saw a couple of people do double takes when they became aware of the black- clad man who had seemingly materialized in the corner, having never noticed his passage, so swift and silent had it been. The subway car they were in was brightly lit, but shadows seemed to have gathered in that particular spot.  
  
They traveled for a time in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.  
  
"So, did Sara have a lot of boyfriends while at the police academy?" Ian heard himself ask her surrogate nephew. 'This line of questioning is foolish, Ian,' he instantly mentally chastised himself. 'It makes you appear weak. Besides, it is none of your damned business.'  
  
Joey hid a grin by covering his mouth and pretending to cough. "Well, she was and still is a babe," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't you think?"  
  
Ian felt a betraying flush creep up his neck. "Uh, well, yes, she --- oh, this is our stop!" He was devoutly thankful that this journey was nearing its end as he got the distinct feeling Sara's nephew was enjoying his discomfort. Payback, as the saying went, was a bitch.  
  
They transferred to the cross-town L train, which was just pulling into the 14th Street and Eighth Avenue station.  
  
"Thanks for keeping me company on the way over here, Mr. Nottingham," Joey said sincerely as the train jerked into motion. He had watched in admiration as the peculiar, dark-haired man had done his 'invisible man' thing again. It was just as impressive as the first time, and Joey still couldn't figure out how a person his size (and dressed completely in black to boot) managed to do it.  
  
"You are most welcome, young Joseph. And please, call me Ian."  
  
"Okay, Ian." Joey's face fell as he realized that he would soon have to tell the girl he loved that he was turning her in to the police. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"  
  
"Few things in life are, Joseph," Ian said quietly.  
  
"But I'm doing the right thing, aren't I?" he asked, desperate for reassurance.  
  
"Undoubtedly. Your Lady is very lucky to have you as a friend. I sincerely hope she can beat her addiction. With someone like you pulling for her, I truly believe she will prevail," Ian told him.  
  
Joey smiled weakly. "Let's not kid ourselves: she's going to hate me for this. But maybe after she gets better, she'll be able to forgive me."  
  
"With all my heart, I wish for it to be so, Joseph Siri, Jr. You are a remarkable and brave young man."  
  
The train pulled into their stop and they got off and exited the station.  
  
Immediately, Ian scanned the street, and in the gathering dusk, he spotted Sara Pezzini leaning against a mailbox on the corner they had agreed to meet on.  
  
The young and achingly vulnerable boy next to him squared his shoulders.  
  
"Let's do this," Joey murmured to himself, but he paused before walking away. "Oh, and Ian, don't let my Aunt Sara's bitchy attitude put you off. She'll never respect you if you give up without a fight."  
  
And for the fifth time that day, Ian was taken by surprise.  
  
"Wise words, young Joseph," he murmured, "wise words. Good luck to you and your Lady."  
  
"Thanks," the boy muttered. "I think we're gonna need it." And with a little wave good-bye, he went to join his aunt.  
  
When he glanced back moments later, Joey wasn't at all surprised to see that Ian Nottingham had vanished without a trace.  
  
  
  
More to come. Keep the feedback coming! Muchas gracias! 


	7. Chapter 8

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 8.  
  
  
  
Sara Pezzini leaned against a mailbox on the southwest corner of First Avenue and 14th Street, trying her best to appear relaxed and nonchalant. Moments earlier, the Witchblade had done the annoying swirly warmth thing that always alerted her to Ian Nottingham's proximity, and she had forced herself to stop her nervous pacing. Seconds later, she spied her stalker and her nephew emerging from the subway.  
  
She noticed that Nottingham's hair was loose, its long, dark waves framing his always serious, bearded features. Unbidden, the memory of that brief, almost-smile she had glimpsed just before they parted ways popped into her head, and she found herself wondering how a genuine smile would transform his face.  
  
Sara saw the black-clad assassin scan the street before quickly spotting her. Even from a distance, she felt the power of his glittering gaze, and she couldn't suppress a shiver of, of . . . Of what? Excitement? No. NO! Fear? No. Something in between, something she really didn't want to examine at the moment.  
  
Joey must have said something, because Nottingham glanced down at the boy, thankfully breaking the evil spell that had to have been responsible for such bizarre thoughts.  
  
'The stress of the job must be finally getting to me,' Sara thought, giving her head a little shake. 'This is Kenneth Irons' hired killer, for crying out loud!'  
  
She watched her nephew approach, anxiously trying to gauge by his expression whether her spontaneous decision to let her stalker escort him to Stuyvesant Town was going to cost his parents a ton of money in psychotherapy bills. Sara was still not quite sure why she had decided to trust Nottingham to see the kid safely here, especially after the way the man had roughed him up earlier that morning. Although she knew that Joey was in very real danger from Angel Medina, she doubted the drug lord had had enough time to distribute the boy's description to his cronies on the street. Joey probably would have been perfectly safe riding the subway across town by himself. But something had made Sara accept Nottingham's offer to escort him. Maybe it was the echo of the last thing the assassin had said to her in that alley this morning, or, more accurately, the shocking sincerity with which he'd said it. "I would do anything to please you." Oh, yes, that little gem had given her plenty of food for thought. In fact, she could practically feel her own psychotherapy bills piling up.  
  
Sara glanced beyond Joey just in time to see the edge of Ian Nottingham's long, black overcoat disappear around the corner. Typical. He couldn't even stick around long enough for her to thank him for seeing her nephew safely here. Well, she was sure she'd get the chance to do so later. After all, he was under 'strict orders' to stay close to her. This reminder of Kenneth Irons' unwelcome interest in her life was all Sara needed to worsen her already foul mood.  
  
Joey Siri, Jr. looked pensive but determined as he walked up to her.  
  
"Hey, kiddo. I hope that wasn't too weird or anything," Sara said to him.  
  
"What? Oh you mean the subway ride? Nah. Ian's intense, but he's not so scary once you get to know him a little bit," Joey shrugged.  
  
Sara raised her dark eyebrows in her patented look of disbelief. "Fifteen minutes on the subway and you think you know the guy?"  
  
Joey shrugged again. "He's really shy and a little strange but he's not a psycho. Besides, you trusted him enough to let him escort me here, so I knew I could trust him, too."  
  
Sara frowned. Her nephew was a little too astute for her liking, especially where her stalker was concerned. She decided that a judicious change of subject was called for.  
  
"Tell me, do you know if Stuytown has a closed-circuit security system?"  
  
"Yeah, I think it does."  
  
"Then I better stay out of sight until Amanda buzzes you in. Hang on a sec, Joey," Sara told the boy as her cell phone rang. "Pezzini. Go."  
  
"Sara, it's Vicky. We got big trouble," her friend the ME said, her voice barely above a whisper as if she was afraid of being overheard. "I found three sets of prints on that gun you gave me. One set belonged to Paco Gutierrez. Turns out, he's that John Doe I was autopsying when you came down this morning. You know, Jake and Orlinsky's vic? Anyway, since there's no matches in the database, I figure the other prints are Joey's and Amanda's. That's bad, 'cause Jake told me they have a witness who claims he saw two kids matching their description hassling Paco right around the time my autopsy places his time of death. And a squad car responded to a report of shots fired in the vicinity at approximately the same time. As I'm sure you know, it's gonna look bad for Joey and Amanda 'cause Paco was killed by a similar-caliber weapon to the one you gave me. And it gets worse: Unfortunately, I couldn't get a big enough bullet fragment from Paco to do a definitive ballistics comparison. What do you want me to do?" the ME asked anxiously.  
  
Sara sighed. "Well, as it turns out, Joey didn't tell me the whole story about what went down last night when he confronted Paco and Amanda. The girl managed to get the gun from Joey, and fired it twice in order to scare Paco into giving her all of his smack and drug money. But Joey swears the shots didn't even come close to hitting Paco. Anyway, I'm about to go talk to Amanda. Joey thinks he can convince her to turn over the stuff she took off Paco and then turn herself in. I know it's a lot to ask of you, Vic, but could you hold off on submitting the gun into evidence at least until tomorrow morning?"  
  
"Sure thing, girlfriend," Vicky said, relief apparent in her voice. "Sara, I'm sure you already realize this, but Jake and Orlinsky are going to insist on questioning Joey."  
  
"Yeah, but I want to let his parents know what's going on before that happens. They can bring him down to the station first thing tomorrow. I'm gonna try my best to stonewall Jake and Orlinsky until then."  
  
"Good luck with that. See you tomorrow morning," her friend said, and then hung up.  
  
Almost immediately, Sara's cell phone rang again.  
  
"Pezzini. Go."  
  
"Pez, it's Danny."  
  
"Hey, partner. I just heard from Vicky," Sara told him. "Not good news. She found three sets of prints on the gun. One was Paco's, and she figures the other two belong to Amanda and Joey. I'm about to go confront Amanda, who lives in Stuyvesant Town. I'm gonna try to persuade her to turn over the stuff she shook Paco down for and then turn herself in. The girl's parents don't get home until around 6:00, so I'm gonna hang here until then. Do you think you could meet me here in about half an hour so you can take Joey home?"  
  
"Sure thing, partner. I'm right down the street from Stuytown. You do realize that Jake and Orlinsky are gonna want to question Joey, too, right?" Danny pointed out.  
  
Sara sighed again. "Yeah, Vicky said the same thing. I'm gonna tell Jake and Orlinsky that you followed up on Amanda's boyfriend, and that his parents have already agreed to bring him down to the station for questioning. Hopefully, that will satisfy them, and they won't figure out that I've been holding out on them until tomorrow. What a freakin' mess, hunh? After you get here, you can give McCartey and Orlinsky a heads up. They can take Amanda in so Dante doesn't get his panties in a twist about us stepping on their lead. She's in apartment . . . ?" she looked at Joey."  
  
"8A."  
  
"Apartment 8A. Thanks again, Danny." She hung up and put her phone back in her jacket pocket.  
  
"Aunt Sara couldn't you take Amanda to the station?" Joey protested.  
  
"Sorry, Joey, but Danny and me aren't the leads on this case. Jake McCartey and Frank Orlinsky are. Besides, there's something I want to check out later, and it'll be better for me to be on my bike when I do. After I'm done here, I'll stop by the house so we can explain this mess to your parents together, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Let's just get this over with."  
  
Sara stood to the side, out of camera range, as Joey buzzed Amanda Lundquist's apartment. It took a long time for her to answer and her voice sounded fuzzy when she finally did, something Sara didn't think was solely attributable to electronic distortion.  
  
Her heart ached for her 16-year-old nephew, who was trying his best to be stoic when he obviously felt like he was about to betray the trust of the girl he loved.  
  
"Look, Joey, I promise you this is all going to work out for the best," Sara said as they got off the elevator. "You're doing the right thing here."  
  
"Yeah, Ian said the same thing. I wish I had your confidence. I wouldn't blame Amanda if she never forgave me for this," Joey murmured.  
  
'Oh, "Ian" did, did he?' Sara thought uncharitably, not at all pleased that her sociopath of a stalker was dispensing advice to an impressionable kid -- even if it was the same exact advice she herself had just given the kid in question.  
  
Joey stopped in front of the apartment door and took a deep breath before knocking.  
  
A pretty but too thin blond girl that Sara recognized from the Witchblade's vision opened the door and immediately threw her arms around Joey's neck.  
  
"My hero! Thanks again for last night, Joey!" she laughed, hugging him.  
  
"Uh, Amanda, do you remember me telling you about my Aunt Sara?" Joey said, gently disengaging her arms.  
  
Sara stepped into the neat, spacious apartment, closing the door behind her.  
  
Amanda squinted blearily at Sara. "Who are you?"  
  
"My name is Sara Pezzini, Amanda. I'm a detective with the NYPD's homicide division."  
  
Confused, Amanda looked from Sara to Joey. "What's she doing here, Joey? We didn't kill anybody."  
  
"'Manda, Paco is dead. Somebody shot him in the head last night."  
  
"Omigod! But you told her it wasn't me, right, Joey? I didn't even shoot at him!" the girl said, her voice rising with panic.  
  
"But that doesn't change the fact that he's dead, or the fact that the gun Joey took from him has both of your prints on it, Amanda," Sara told her.  
  
Amanda looked at Joey in disbelief. "You gave that gun to a cop, Joey? How stupid could you be!" she screamed at him, wrenching her arms from his grip.  
  
"By coming to me he probably saved your life, Amanda. We have reason to believe Paco gave your names and descriptions to his supplier. That means there's a price on both your heads on the street. You can't just shake down a dealer and not expect there to be any consequences. Now, if you hand over the money and drugs you took from Paco and turn yourself in, you can get some help for your heroin addiction and just maybe I can make this all go away," Sara said, fast losing patience with the girl.  
  
"You're lying! Joey, can't you see she's lying? They're gonna fingerprint me and when my prints match those on the gun, they're gonna try and pin Paco's murder on me!" Amanda said wildly, grabbing Joey's shirt. "Well, I'm not going to prison. No way! Your prints are on that gun, too, Joey. I'm gonna say you were the one who shot him," she threatened.  
  
Joey stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. "You're just upset. You don't mean that," he said uncertainly. "You need to get help, Amanda. That's the only reason I did this."  
  
"If you think jail is the kind of help I need, you're even stupider than I thought!" Amanda spat at him.  
  
Sara had had just about enough. She pulled the girl away from Joey, and shook her. Hard. "You ungrateful little bitch! Can't you see Joey is trying to help you out here? He risked his life for you! And all you cared about was getting high again! But guess what? Forensics will show that you were the one who fired the gun, Amanda. Joey, do you remember what she was wearing last night?"  
  
"Yeah, I think so."  
  
"Go in her room and look in the hamper. See if you can find the shirt and jacket she was wearing when she fired the gun."  
  
Joey did as he was told, and came back holding a cropped denim jacket and a t-shirt. "Here they are," he said, his composure beginning to crack.  
  
Amanda began to cry. "Oh, God, Joey. Why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me!"  
  
"He does love you, Amanda. That's exactly why he's doing this. Now, where did you stash the drugs and the money?" Sara persisted.  
  
"My parents are going to kill me," the girl moaned, sagging in her grip.  
  
Sara gave her another little shake. "The drugs and money, Amanda. Don't force me to call in a team to toss this place. At least spare your parents that."  
  
Helpfully, the Witchblade sent Sara a brief vision of a Nine West shoebox on the top shelf of a cramped closet. 'Thanks,' Sara thought back at it. 'But I think I got this covered.'  
  
"They, they're in my closet in a shoebox on the top shelf," Amanda sobbed.  
  
"Good girl. Joey, sit with her while I check it out."  
  
She watched as Joey led the trembling girl over to a couch and then sat beside her, holding her awkwardly, while apologizing through his own tears for betraying her. Then Sara went into the girl's bedroom and looked in the closet, finding the heroin and drug money exactly where Amanda -- and the Witchblade -- said they would be.  
  
For the next 20 minutes, Sara alternately paced and stood by a window overlooking the courtyard, waiting for Danny to arrive. She felt like she'd been through the wringer emotionally and physically, and she could only imagine what her nephew must be feeling. Amanda had stopped crying but the tears had been replaced by a hopeless, lost look that Sara didn't like. Plus, she had begun to show signs of needing another fix. The next 24 hours were going to be agonizing for the girl, Sara knew, and she didn't envy her one bit.  
  
Her cell phone warbled.  
  
"Pezzini. Go."  
  
"It's me. I'm downstairs," Danny Woo said. "I just put in a call to McCartey and Orlinsky, and they're on their way over here."  
  
"Danny's here, Joey," she said to her nephew. "I'll stay here with Amanda until her parents get home and the other detectives arrive."  
  
"Please don't leave me, Joey," Amanda whimpered, clinging to the boy.  
  
"I've got to go, Amanda. You'll be all right. When they say you can have visitors in rehab, I'll come by and see you. I promise," Joey said, gently pulling free of her grasp.  
  
"Nooooo! Don't leave! I can't do this without you!" the girl cried, reaching for him again.  
  
Sara grabbed her and held on. "Go, now, Joey. I'll be by the house later tonight. Just go!" she repeated as he hesitated, clearly torn.  
  
"Please don't let them hurt her, Aunt Sara!" he begged. "I promised they wouldn't hurt her."  
  
"Nobody is going to hurt her, Joey. Now, go on. Danny's waiting."  
  
Finally, the boy left, his heartbroken sobs echoing in the hallway.  
  
Sighing heavily, Sara gently patted the thin shoulders of the shaking girl in her arms. She was not looking forward to explaining their daughter's predicament to her parents. And then she was going to have to deal with Orlinsky and Jake, who were going to want to know how she had tracked down the girl so quickly -- well, at least Jake probably would. Frank Orlinsky was too stupid and lazy to care about the details, but Sara suspected that Jake McCartey was a lot sharper than his airhead California surfer boy demeanor led you to believe. With Amanda's cooperation, she was pretty sure she could leave the two detectives in the dark about her relationship to Joey, at least until she had the chance to inform his parents of the rapidly worsening trouble their son was in. It was infinitely better for this sort of bad news to come from a family member rather than from strangers. Still, her subterfuge was going to leave a bad taste in her mouth, especially where the blond rookie detective was concerned.  
  
Unhappily, Sara was forced to accept the fact that there was just no way she could leave Joey Siri, Jr. out of this mess. Danny and Vicky had both warned her it would be unavoidable, but she had stubbornly clung to the hope that she could somehow shield her nephew from further trouble.  
  
'Maybe the rest of the week will be better,' Sara thought wistfully. 'It can hardly get worse.'  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Keep that feedback coming. Mama likes! 


	8. Chapter 9

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. They are the property of Top Cow, TNT, etc. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 9.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham rode the subway back to where he'd left his car a few blocks from Stuyvesant High School. He had decided that he had enough time to retrieve the vehicle and then return to the vicinity of Stuyvesant Town to await Sara's next move. Ian could sense that she was still there inside Amanda's apartment and that she was nervous and upset, which was a slight improvement over the righteous anger and impatience he had perceived through their bond a short while ago.  
  
He kept thinking about the last thing Joseph Siri, Jr. had said to him: "She'll never respect you if you give up without a fight."  
  
It would seem that Ian had his work cut out for him because he hadn't the foggiest idea how to go about defeating the mistrust and loathing the beautiful Wielder felt whenever she laid eyes on him. Safely shepherding her precocious nephew to their appointed meeting place had definitely been a step in the right direction, but Ian had the feeling that Sara Pezzini's goodwill toward him for obediently fulfilling that duty would not last very long. The unpleasant showdown between Joseph's girlfriend and herself had most likely eroded any sense of gratitude the Wielder might have felt.  
  
As he emerged from the subway, his cell phone vibrated and Ian winced as he realized that he had neglected to call his master with the promised updates since they had last spoken that morning. Kenneth Irons would not be pleased that it was he who had been forced to call Ian again.  
  
"Yes, Master?"  
  
"Ian, did I not order you to keep me apprised of developments arising from this morning's events?" Kenneth Irons' mellifluous voice was deceptively mild.  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Then why is it that I am calling you instead of the other way around? I find it extremely difficult to believe that nothing has occurred between now and the last time we spoke."  
  
"My apologies, Master. I allowed myself to become . . . distracted."  
  
"Hmmm. I will decide on an appropriate punishment when you return home for the evening. Report."  
  
"As I am sure you are aware, the Witchblade gave the Wielder a vision."  
  
"Yes, I sensed it as, apparently, did you."  
  
"Yes. Several hours after she had the vision, the Wielder left the precinct and headed toward her nephew's school. I followed then approached her in an attempt to persuade her to tell me what the vision had shown her. As usual, she was uncooperative, but she did reveal that the drug dealer who had threatened her nephew is dead. He was killed by two shots to the head last night. The Wielder also admitted that the vision showed her his killer."  
  
"Interesting. Continue."  
  
"Detective Pezzini then met up with her nephew, and I overheard her tell him that preliminary tests on the weapon she gave the ME showed that the gun had been fired recently. Two bullets were missing. As I surmised, the boy did not tell his aunt the whole story about what transpired last night. He confessed to her that after he disarmed the drug dealer, his girlfriend managed to wrest the weapon away from him. At gunpoint, she forced the dealer to give her his supply of drugs and the drug money he had collected thus far. The girl fired two shots, one to show she meant business and the other to scare the dealer off. Apparently, the man immediately returned to his supplier and reported his misfortune. It seems that this incensed the supplier, who I suspect then killed the dealer because of his ineptitude."  
  
"Has the ME reported her findings on the weapon yet?"  
  
"Possibly. In all likelihood, her tests will show that there are three sets of prints on the weapon: the drug dealer's, the boy's, and the girl's. This is cause for concern for the Wielder, because apparently the murder weapon is virtually identical to the gun the ME has. Suspicion will undoubtedly fall on the boy and his girlfriend unless ballistics can prove that the gun they handled was not the murder weapon. I believe the Wielder is now going to try and apprehend the dealer's supplier in the hopes of recovering the murder weapon so that she can clear her nephew's name."  
  
"Unquestionably that will be her next course of action. She is nothing if not predictable. Where is the Wielder now?"  
  
"She is confronting the girlfriend at her home. I believe Detective Pezzini intends to convince her to hand over the drugs and money and then turn herself in. Her nephew is with her and is cooperating with her effort."  
  
"Stay close to Sara, Ian. But after she retires for the night, return home." Kenneth Irons said, and then hung up.  
  
Ian sighed as he pocketed his phone. He was not fooled by the lack of anger in his master's beautifully modulated voice. Irons was furious with him. Ian had failed in his duty and would therefore accept whatever punishment his master saw fit to bestow upon him.  
  
Honor demanded that he confess that he had disobeyed his master's direct orders not once, but twice: first by abandoning the Wielder in order to escort her nephew to his girlfriend's home simply out of an ill- conceived desire to please her, and secondly by failing to keep his master apprised of events in a timely manner because, as he had already admitted, he had allowed himself to become distracted by thoughts of her.  
  
This would in no way mitigate the harshness of his punishment -- in fact, it would probably exacerbate it -- but it was the least Ian could do to make up for the shameful neglect of his duties. As a rule, his master saw to it that the punishment fit the transgression, but lately Irons' hand had been heavier than usual as he took out his frustration over his ongoing failure to seduce the Wielder on his hapless servant.  
  
However, Ian decided that he would keep his enlightening conversation with Joseph Siri, Jr. to himself. This tiny act of rebellion did not cause him any guilt whatsoever. He was not foolish enough to delude himself into believing that he had any chance at all of winning the battle for the Wielder's affections.  
  
Kenneth Irons was famous for his effortless, erudite charm and sexual exploits. His conquests, both male and female, were legion, whereas Ian's monkish existence and lifelong conditioning of subservience to Irons saw to it that he would always be socially awkward and emotionally repressed. No, Ian could not hope to compete with his master in the art of seduction. But he would not do anything to aid him in his quest either.  
  
He knew that Irons cared nothing for Sara Pezzini the woman. All he cared about was controlling the Witchblade, and he saw seducing its Wielder as a means to this end. Given his innate sense of honor, Ian found this repugnant. In his mind, the two -- Sara and the Witchblade -- were inextricably intertwined. He was her protector and stalwart champion because she was the Wielder, and throughout the ancient weapon's storied past there had always been one such as he. That the Lady Sara also happened to be beautiful, intelligent, brave, and honorable was pure luck. True, most of the Witchblade's Wielders had possessed extraordinary physical beauty, but not all of them were as conscientious and principled as Sara Pezzini was. In fact, more than one had been bloodthirsty, morally corrupt tyrants. After all, in ancient times, the Witchblade's primary function had been as a conquering weapon.  
  
Yet, Sara insisted on using it to do only good, and Kenneth Irons was not at all pleased by this. Ian knew that if the Blade had allowed men to wield it, as it once was rumored to have done, and if Irons had been accepted by it as a true Wielder, he would not have been nearly as judicious in his usage of the weapon and the awesome power it gave him. Rather, he would have reveled in the Witchblade's legendary capacity for unleashing chaos and violence on an unsuspecting populace.  
  
So, Ian resolved to continue to fight to gain the current Wielder's trust and respect. He would find a way to prove that he was worthy of her esteem, even though he knew he would never win her love. He told himself that it would be enough if she came to realize that he had her back and would willingly fight to the death defending her.  
  
Involuntarily, his hand once again came to rest on the spot near his heart where his Lady's fist had made physical contact, and he tried in vain to make himself forget how that fleeting, careless touch had made his soul sing.  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Feedback, as always, is much appreciated. 


	9. Chapter 10

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 10.  
  
  
  
Kenneth Irons knew the exact moment the Witchblade gave its Wielder her first vision of the day.  
  
Sara Pezzini's shock and revulsion at the abruptness and violence of the vision was crystal clear to him through their link.  
  
Then Kenneth waited for Ian Nottingham to call him.  
  
And waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
Several hours passed, during which he sensed the Wielder's growing impatience and concern, no doubt for the safety of the boy she thought of as her nephew. Then Irons felt the brief disorientation caused by the second vision the Blade chose to share with Sara. Whatever it was she saw made her anxiety level increase, so much so Kenneth began pacing in his office until he realized what he was doing and forced himself to take a seat and relax.  
  
And still he waited for his bodyguard and servant to call him.  
  
And waited.  
  
He even had time to leave Vorschlag's headquarters, make the half- hour trip to his estate in the suburbs, and ensconce himself in the library there. This was fortunate, because he had complete privacy when he felt the all-too-familiar white-hot blaze of Sara Pezzini's anger when Ian Nottingham approached her. This time, Kenneth did not have to hold back a yelp at the searing pain the raised scar on the back of his right hand dealt him.  
  
When the discomfort faded almost as quickly as it had flared up, Irons waited by the phone for the much-anticipated call from Ian. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he sensed the Wielder's temper flare again, but the ache receded nearly as swiftly as before. Idly, Kenneth wondered what young Nottingham did to mollify Sara's irritation so quickly during their encounters.  
  
A cold anger began to grow in him as the minutes crawled by. Another three-quarters of an hour elapsed, and Kenneth sensed the Witchblade impart yet another fleeting vision to its Wielder, the third of the day.  
  
And still no call from his bodyguard.  
  
Rage filled Irons as he realized that he was going to be forced to call Nottingham if he wanted an update. His body shook with the effort not to let his fury show in his voice as he dialed Ian's cell phone and spoke to his errant servant.  
  
His extreme displeasure did not abate after he hung up. If anything, it increased.  
  
It had become glaringly obvious to Kenneth that the usual whippings were no longer effective in reinforcing Ian's absolute obedience.  
  
Ever since the Witchblade had chosen Sara Pezzini as its Wielder and he had been tasked with following her every move, young Nottingham's behavior had become increasingly unruly. On more than one occasion, he had even gone so far as to question his master's decisions with regard to his handling of the beautiful detective, something heretofore unheard of.  
  
Irons remembered his shock the first time it had happened. It galled him that Ian's unsolicited advice had turned out to be correct in every instance. Kenneth did not intend to become used to being second-guessed, especially by a lowly servant. No, he was simply going to have to figure out a better way to quell this disturbing trend toward rebelliousness in his wayward employee.  
  
He put in a call to his personal physician, Dr. Immo, whose state-of- the-art lab was located in the deepest sublevel of the estate.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Irons?" the doctor's obsequious tones answered on the first ring.  
  
"Please come to the library at once, Doctor," Irons bade him.  
  
Minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door.  
  
"Enter," Kenneth said from where he sat near the ever-present fire in his favorite chair, an ornately carved, throne-like monstrosity.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Irons. I trust you are well?" the doctor asked solicitously. As usual, the gray-haired man was clad in a white lab coat.  
  
"Yes, for the time being, Dr. Immo. It is Ian who concerns me." Kenneth steepled his long, elegant fingers, a slight frown marring his otherwise smooth brow.  
  
"What is the problem with the boy?"  
  
"He is becoming more and more infatuated with the Wielder. It has started to affect his efficiency and to call into question just where his loyalties lie. This is intolerable to me," Irons told him.  
  
"What do you propose I do?" Immo asked, unable to keep a touch of anxiety out of his voice. He had a soft spot for young Nottingham, having ushered him into the world so to speak.  
  
"Can you concoct some sort of drug therapy that will render Sara Pezzini less attractive to him?"  
  
"Are you suggesting I chemically castrate the boy?" Dr. Immo asked, his tone implying that this idea was repugnant to him.  
  
"Can you do that?"  
  
"Not without severely compromising his aggression levels, I'm afraid." Immo hesitated. "Forgive my impertinence, Mr. Irons, but since the Wielder doesn't return Ian's affections, why contemplate such a drastic course of action?"  
  
"Perhaps you haven't been listening to what I've been saying, doctor. Ian's loyalties are shifting to the Wielder, and I will not tolerate it," Kenneth bit out, glaring at the bespectacled man.  
  
"You must calm yourself, sir," the doctor said soothingly. "I can tell by your color that your blood pressure is elevated. You know this is not good for your health. Which reminds me, you are scheduled for a flu shot. I can administer it now, if you like."  
  
Irons had a sudden inspiration. "Doctor, how much trouble would it be to temporarily incapacitate Ian's recuperative powers?" he asked.  
  
"For what purpose?" the doctor asked cautiously.  
  
"Is it or isn't it possible, Doctor?" Irons snapped impatiently.  
  
"Well, as you know, the genetic enhancements that Ian underwent make him impervious to such things as the common cold, influenza, and even certain types of biologically engineered viruses. It also enables him to heal much faster than a normal person would. However, I have in my possession various toxins that would mimic the symptoms of a bad cold or a mild case of the flu and that would also severely curtail his healing ability."  
  
"How long would it take for the toxin to take effect?"  
  
"He would probably begin to experience the symptoms I mentioned within 24 hours."  
  
"Excellent. I want you to prepare a dosage."  
  
"However, sir, I must caution that an antidote must be administered within 48 to 72 hours after he begins to exhibit symptoms, or he could become seriously ill. Perhaps even fatally."  
  
"Noted. Now, I want you to give Ian a complete physical exam first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you the perfect excuse to slip him the toxin," Kenneth told him, his mood beginning to improve tremendously.  
  
"You do realize I gave Ian his annual physical only three months ago," Dr. Immo said.  
  
"Yes, I do. I also know how much he hates being poked and prodded. But rest assured that he will acquiesce if I order him to undergo another physical. He will think it is part of the punishment that he is aware he deserves for disobeying me today," Irons said with a cold, cold smile.  
  
"Very well." Again the doctor hesitated. "Might I ask exactly what purpose sickening the boy serves?"  
  
Because Kenneth was suddenly feeling magnanimous, he decided to overlook the doctor's impudence.  
  
"I think it is high time young Nottingham was reminded in no uncertain terms exactly to whom his loyalty belongs. His very well-being is in my control. He must never forget that. After this, he never will," he said with satisfaction. "Now, I believe you mentioned something about a flu shot."  
  
"Yes, sir. I will return with it momentarily."  
  
"Oh, and Doctor," Kenneth said silkily, "need I warn you that I will be very displeased should Ian learn anything of what we have just discussed here?" His cruel ice-blue eyes pinned the doctor where he stood.  
  
"No, sir. As always, you have my utmost discretion in all matters."  
  
"Very good." 'Oh, yes, very good indeed,' Irons thought as he watched the good doctor leave the library.  
  
He was not troubled at all by the fact that his plan seriously jeopardized his bodyguard's chances of surviving his encounter with the attack force due to arrive in New York the day after tomorrow. Kenneth knew that even a sick and/or injured Ian Nottingham was still far more lethal than a dozen hale and hearty men. However, this would be a true test of the assassin's survival skills. If he passed, he would have proven himself worthy of service in Kenneth's employ beyond the shadow of a doubt. If he failed, well, naturally, Irons had a backup plan.  
  
  
  
More to come. Feedback of the constructive criticism variety is most welcome. Or I'll cry. 


	10. Chapter 11

A Family Affair  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 11.  
  
  
  
Sara Pezzini waved good-bye to Joey Siri, Jr. as she got on her Buell and prepared to head back to the city from Brooklyn.  
  
His parents, Paula and Robert, had been understandably upset about the trouble their son had gotten himself into. The past hour and a half had not been fun-filled for Sara, but it paled in comparison to the wrenching hour she'd spent in the company of Amanda Lundquist's parents. Joey's parents had not had to deal with the fact that their child was a drug-addicted felon. Just that his girlfriend was one and had dragged their son into an unholy mess because of it.  
  
Robert Siri, who was like an older brother to Sara, had been very grateful that she was stepping up to bat for his son. But Paula Siri had been unable to resist blaming Sara for teaching Joey those judo moves in the first place and for putting ideas of being a hero into his head. She was very focused on the fact that her only son could very easily have been killed during that confrontation with Amanda's drug dealer the night before.  
  
'If you only knew how close he came to dying this morning at the hands of my very own personal stalker, you'd wake up with a head full of gray hair,' Sara had thought to herself while listening to the older woman's not-entirely-groundless accusations.  
  
After all, Sara had taught Joey some basic defensive moves as soon as he was big enough to learn the proper techniques. She had also drilled into him that he should never be afraid to stick up for someone weaker or smaller than himself who was in trouble. Ever since he was a little kid, he had hero-worshipped his tough-as-nails policewoman aunt, horrifying his mother but delighting his grandfather and father with claims that he when he grew up, he wanted to be a police officer, too.  
  
Paula had been very relieved when Joey had outgrown that desire. He had decided that he wanted to be a doctor instead, and both his grades and his brains were excellent enough to make that dream a reality one day. Right now, all his mother could think about was that if that gun had gone off during the struggle over it, her son could have ended up seriously injured or even dead.  
  
Sara knew that once she calmed down, the woman she thought of as her sister-in-law would realize that she should be proud of her son's bravery, if not his impulsive decision to take matters into his own hands, and that the upstanding young man the boy was turning out to be was in great part attributable to his surrogate aunt's influence.  
  
"Sorry about Mom's ranting," Joey had said to her apologetically as they stood on the front porch of the Siri family home in Bay Ridge. "She worries about me."  
  
"That's what moms do, Joey. I'm a big girl, I can take it. But no more hero acts, okay? At least not until you're a doctor, kiddo!" Sara had teased him. Then they had hugged one last time, and Sara had headed for her Buell.  
  
She was exhausted from the emotionally draining events of this hellish day, but there was one last thing she wanted to do before heading home for the night, and that was check out the condemned apartment building the Witchblade's vision had shown her that morning. Although she very much doubted that Angel Medina was stupid enough to still be using the place for his "business transactions" after executing Paco there, Sara decided to make sure it had been abandoned and to see if any evidence of the crime had been left behind. She knew that it was risky going down to that neighborhood by herself at this time of night, but she couldn't ask Danny Woo to join her because that would have raised all kinds of questions about how she had found out about the location in the first place. No, she was going to have to go it alone -- except, of course, for her constant shadow.  
  
She glanced up and down the quiet, residential street before putting on her helmet, but she saw no sign of Kenneth Irons' bodyguard. She knew he was nearby, however, and although she would never admit this to herself, this knowledge fortified her resolution to go check out the former drug den.  
  
As always, racing through the city streets on her Buell gave Sara a jolt of adrenaline. She made the trip to Alphabet City from Bay Ridge in less than 30 minutes. The name of the street sign she had glimpsed in her vision and the number of the building were seared on her brain. The decrepit structure turned out to be located on a desolate street, not too far from the vacant lot where Joey had confronted Amanda and Paco Gutierrez the night before. It seemed like every other building on the street was boarded up, or looked like it should be. And although the hour was not that late, few people were around. In other words, it was the perfect place to set up an illicit drug operation.  
  
Sara parked her motorcycle a couple of blocks from the building and walked down the dark, deserted street, her helmet under her arm and her gun loose in its holster. She looked for but didn't see a lookout as she approached the building that she "remembered" from the vision. Glancing at the Witchblade, she saw that the stone remained quiescent, so she climbed the crumbling front steps and, quietly as possible, unhooked the padlock and removed its chain. Pushing open the plywood door, she entered the pitch-black foyer, flicking on her maglite after listening for but not hearing anything from deeper inside the condemned structure.  
  
As she had surmised, the room where Paco Gutierrez had met his sad end was empty of nearly all signs of habitation. There were only a couple of cigarette butts and empty beer cans to show that anyone had been there recently. Even the table and chairs were gone.  
  
Sara carefully looked for any bloodstains on the floor and the walls, but found none. Somebody had done an excellent cleanup job. Sighing, she headed back out to the street.  
  
She stopped short as she saw the motley group of thugs standing in front of the stoop, blocking her exit.  
  
"Hey, sweet thing. You lost?" one of them said, flashing diamond- studded gold caps at her in what he obviously thought was a charming smile.  
  
Sara sighed, rolling her eyes. "Not tonight, boys. I am so not in the mood for this."  
  
"We can put you in the mood if you give us the chance, baby," another one said, leering at her suggestively.  
  
Sara raised an eyebrow at him. "You think so? I seriously doubt it. You see, I've just had the day from hell and, I don't mind telling you, having to deal with shitheads like you is the last thing I need right now. So, why don't you all just run along. Go on, now, scoot!" she said, making shooing motions with her hands.  
  
"See, now, that ain't right. You come to our 'hood, poke your nose where it don't belong, and then you insult us!" the first hoodlum spoke up, his voice taking on a nasty edge.  
  
"Look, homey, I'm tired, I'm pissed off, and I'm a cop. Which means I've got a gun that, I gotta tell you, I really don't mind using. So, back off!" Sara snapped, her almost nonexistent patience at an end.  
  
"You? A cop? Yeah, right," another one of the geniuses scoffed.  
  
Sara rolled her eyes again, and started to push back her jacket to expose the badge clipped to her belt, when suddenly she saw her assailants' eyes grow wide as they noticed something above and behind her. Simultaneously, the Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, and Sara glanced up over her shoulder to see Ian Nottingham crouched in the gaping third-story window directly above where she stood.  
  
Like some kind of dark, avenging angel, he descended, black overcoat flaring out behind him like wings, landing light as a cat onto the stoop beside her. Rising to his full height, he cocked his head slightly as he stared unblinkingly at her would-be assailants, cold, cold hazel eyes marking each one of them in turn.  
  
"It's fuckin' Batman, yo!" one of the goons breathed in awe.  
  
"That your dawg, bitch?" obviously the least smartest of the bunch demanded, even as his compatriots began to wisely back away.  
  
"No, that, gentlemen, is your worst freakin' nightmare: A stone-cold killer with a helluva lot of firepower," Sara informed them. "You do have a lot of firepower, don'tcha, Nottingham?" she asked him, sotto voce.  
  
"Always, my Lady," he said softly, never taking his eyes from the men.  
  
As if by magic, two black (naturally) 9mm Glock pistols appeared in the assassin's black-gloved hands. Then, in the blink of an eye, his hands were empty once again.  
  
'Very impressive!' Sara thought. 'And way creepy.' She couldn't suppress a shiver of uneasiness at this stark reminder of just how lethal her stalker was.  
  
But the big, dark-haired man's sleight of hand had the desired effect: All but one of her adversaries scuttled off into the night, like roaches from a light.  
  
"Buh-bye now!" she called after them.  
  
"I ain't afraid of you, motherfucker," the remaining brainless thug said to Kenneth Irons' bodyguard and henchman.  
  
And then the fool made a big mistake: He reached into his coat.  
  
All Sara saw was a blur of motion as Nottingham moved faster than she thought humanly possible.  
  
The next thing she knew, a loud crack echoed through the night air, and the assassin was standing on the sidewalk over the prone body of the hapless hoodlum.  
  
Miraculously, the man was still breathing. In fact, he was moaning as he cradled his right arm against his chest. An almost comical look of terror on his face, he stared up at the black-clad man looming over him, one of whose gloved hands held a Glock to his head.  
  
"Um, Nottingham, much as I hate to admit it, last time I checked, stupidity wasn't a capital offense," Sara said. "Please don't shoot this miscreant on my account."  
  
"I wuz just reaching for my damn cell phone, dawg!" the man on the ground whimpered. "It's on vibrate! Awww, shit, I think you broke my motherfuckin' arm."  
  
"I know for a fact I broke your arm," Nottingham said equably, holstering his gun (much to Sara's relief). "A spiral fracture of the ulna and radius bones to be precise. Extremely painful, no doubt. Perhaps that will teach you not to speak so disrespectfully to a lady in the future. Now, apologize to my Lady, or I will break your other arm."  
  
"I'm sorry I called you a bitch, Miss," the man said quickly and earnestly.  
  
"Apology accepted. Now, if you can get up and run away, I suggest you do so before my, uh, dawg here decides to give you another 'extremely painful' anatomy lesson."  
  
The man staggered to his feet and took off running, looking back fearfully once or twice.  
  
"You know, Nottingham," Sara said conversationally, joining him on the sidewalk, "I'm pretty sure I could have handled the situation. I do happen to have a gun on me, not to mention a nifty little piece of jewelry called the Witchblade, remember?"  
  
"He was disrespectful to you and needed to be taught a lesson," her stalker said in his deep, quiet voice, eyes on the ground. "Plus, he might have been armed. I thought it best to take no chances and incapacitate him as quickly as possible."  
  
"I'm just glad you didn't blow his freakin' head off. That would have been a bit difficult to explain in my report."  
  
She started walking down the street, in the direction of where she'd parked the Buell. Nottingham fell in beside her.  
  
"What did you hope to find in that building, my Lady?" the assassin asked curiously.  
  
"Some evidence of Paco Gutierrez's murder. It's where the Witchblade's vision showed me he was killed. Unfortunately, it was cleaned up pretty thoroughly."  
  
"I take it the murder weapon is similar to the one that you gave the ME."  
  
"Yeah, and Vicky found three sets of prints on it: Paco's, Joey's, and Amanda's. Joey's parents are going to bring him down to the station tomorrow to be questioned by Jake and Orlinsky, who are the leads on the case. I, um, managed to keep the fact that I'm related to Joey from Jake and Orlinsky, when they showed up at Amanda's apartment this afternoon," she admitted, feeling a fresh pang of guilt at her deception, especially where Jake was concerned. "I don't know, but maybe I can convince Dante to send a forensics team to the vacant lot where Amanda fired that gun, and they can recover the bullets," Sara said.  
  
'Yeah, and maybe pigs can fly,' she thought to herself, already dreading the riot act she was certain her captain was going to read her when he found out just how deep her involvement in this case actually was. Recalling the wildness of the girl's shots from the vision, Sara knew how slim the chances were that either of those bullets would ever be recovered.  
  
"Maybe you can persuade Ms. Po to dispose of the gun?" Ian suggested, knowing even before he said it that Sara's sense of honor would not allow this course of action to be carried out.  
  
She shook her head. "I couldn't ask her to do that. Besides, Danny knows about it and so do McCartey and Orlinsky. They took Amanda's statement earlier this evening. She's been placed in a drug rehab facility until her hearing. By now, Dante also knows about the gun. He just doesn't know Vicky has already processed it. I told her to keep it under wraps until I get there tomorrow morning. I'll tell her to introduce it into evidence after Joey gives his statement." 'And then the shit will really hit the fan,' Sara thought wearily.  
  
"You will find a way to clear Joseph's name, my Lady," Nottingham said. "The Witchblade showed you Paco's real killer. It is only a matter of time until he is brought to justice."  
  
"That reminds me, Nottingham," Sara said, as they reached the spot where her motorcycle was parked, "I never got a chance to thank you for escorting Joey to Amanda's place earlier today. Thank you for doing that."  
  
"I live to serve you, my Lady," he replied gravely, giving her a slight bow.  
  
She peered at his face to see if he was joking and was not at all surprised to find that his expression was completely serious, although, as usual, he avoided making eye contact with her.  
  
"Right. Well, I'm heading home for the night, so I guess your job's done for today," she said, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot.  
  
"I will, of course, see you safely home."  
  
"Oh, yeah, of course," she said, smiling wryly.  
  
The tall, black-clad man looked at her through his lashes. "It is good to finally see your smile, Sara," he said softly, and Sara felt a weird little quiver in the pit of her stomach at his words.  
  
"Yeah, well, today wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs," she said, putting on her helmet and straddling the Buell. "Goodnight, Nottingham." For some reason, she suddenly wanted to put some distance between herself and this very odd and highly dangerous man.  
  
"Goodnight, my Lady. Rest well."  
  
The Buell's engine growled to life, and Sara pulled out of the parking space into the street. When she glanced back toward the sidewalk seconds later, Nottingham had vanished.  
  
'How the hell does he do that?' she thought.  
  
Rest well, he'd said. Yeah, right. Somehow, Sara knew that just wasn't in the cards for her tonight and probably for many nights to come.  
  
  
  
More to come. I'm loving the feedback. Keep it coming! 


	11. Chapter 12

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wish I did. Just playing. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter 12.  
  
By the weary set of her shoulders, Ian Nottingham could tell that Sara Pezzini was exhausted when she finally left her nephew's house. Through his trusty rifle scope, he watched as she stood on the front porch and briefly talked with young Joseph, then hugged him before walking to her motorcycle.  
  
Even though he knew she could not possibly see him in the nighttime darkness where he was parked some 300 yards away, he had to fight the urge to duck down in his seat when she paused before putting on her helmet and looked intently up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. He got the distinct feeling that it was he she was looking for. Ian didn't relax until she mounted the Buell, giving her nephew one last wave good-bye before starting it up and riding off.  
  
He let two minutes elapse before he started his car and followed her. Ian had long since learned that there was no point in trying to keep her in sight when tailing her. Sara rode like a woman possessed, zipping in and out of traffic and breaking the speed limit when at all possible. And that was before she figured out he was following her every move.  
  
More often than not, he was forced to rely on his bond with the Wielder to locate her eventual destination and then follow her there at his best possible speed. But as time went by, he was discovering that he was slowly getting better at anticipating her moves, although contrary to what his master thought, Sara Pezzini was far from predictable.  
  
Like now, for instance. He frowned as he realized that she was not heading to her loft in Tribeca, as he had hoped. Instead, she was headed toward the East Village, more specifically the area known as Alphabet City. He sensed it when she stopped and parked her motorcycle. A few minutes later, he drove by the bike, which was in a rather seedy section of the neighborhood, and parked around the corner from it.  
  
Getting out of his vehicle, Ian scanned his surroundings, noting the virtual absence of people and the surfeit of abandoned and dilapidated buildings. Keeping to the shadows of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, he followed his connection to the Wielder to a building that, according to the sticker on the plywood front doors, was condemned. That was when he noticed that Sara's presence inside it had attracted some unwanted attention.  
  
A group of unsavory looking characters had begun to gather in front of the building, effectively blocking Lady Sara's egress from it.  
  
Swiftly, Ian crossed the street and circled around to the back of the building, unnoticed by the thugs. Climbing the rusting fire escape, he gained access to the third floor via a gutted window. Silently padding across the warped and debris-strewn floor, Ian took up position by the window that directly overlooked the front stoop.  
  
Moments later, the Wielder came out of the building, only to be confronted by the imprudent young men waiting outside.  
  
Ian counted six of them. Not nearly a problem.  
  
Typically, Sara showed absolutely no fear of the ruffians, sarcastically informing them that she was in no mood for the confrontation. Ian smiled as he heard her threaten to use her service weapon, but it faded away as her assailants seemed disinclined to believe her claim that she was a police officer. He decided that it was time to reveal his presence.  
  
His sudden appearance in the third-floor window above the entrance and then effortless leap to the stoop below was gratifyingly awe-inspiring, and like the cowards he suspected them of being, the hooligans quickly backed down. After he fixed them with his most intimidating gaze and silently demonstrated that he was heavily armed and not at all adverse to violence, all but one of them fled.  
  
The reprobate that foolishly elected to remain -- the same one that Ian had marked for death when he dared to insult his Lady -- boldly professed not to be frightened of him. And then, much to Nottingham's delight, the idiot made a move toward his jacket.  
  
Ian took immense pleasure in snapping the man's right arm and laying him out on the ground. He drew one of his Glocks, but refrained from putting a bullet in the imbecile's brain when his Lady indicated that she would prefer he didn't shoot the miscreant. He was forced to content himself with eliciting an apology from the terrified man, who Lady Sara then graciously allowed to run away before Ian could inflict more damage on him, much to his chagrin.  
  
He braced himself for a furious tongue-lashing from the Wielder, but she was astonishingly mild-mannered in declaring that she could have handled the situation herself. There followed the most civil conversation he could ever recall them having as he escorted her back to where her motorcycle was parked.  
  
Ian had to forcibly restrain himself from getting down on one knee and declaring his undying devotion to her when she actually remembered to thank him for accompanying her nephew to his girlfriend's home earlier that day.  
  
He heaved a mental sigh of regret when he sensed the return of her customary uneasiness around him after he stated that he lived to serve her. However, moments later, his heart rate sped up when his assurance that he would see her safely home elicited the first genuine smile he had ever seen from her in his presence. She blinked in surprise when he told her truthfully that it was good to finally see her smile. Unfortunately, after that, it became obvious that she was eager to part company with him, and he realized that his admission had unsettled her even further.  
  
Still, Ian held onto the memory of that smile.  
  
As promised, he saw her safely to her door, and then made the half- hour drive to the estate in Westchester, where his master and the promised punishment awaited him. The recollection of Sara's smile helped him endure the enthusiastic whipping Irons dealt him as well as the long hours that followed, when the pain of his cuts and welts did not let him fall asleep until just before dawn.  
  
****  
  
What felt like mere minutes after he had finally managed to fall asleep, Ian was awakened by Irons and instructed to report to Dr. Immo for a complete physical.  
  
He sighed as he realized that his master must have decided that the beating he had administered the previous night had not sufficed in the way of punishment. Kenneth Irons was fully aware of the fact that Ian hated to be poked and prodded after having been subjected to so many medical procedures while he was growing up.  
  
Wearily dragging himself from his bed, Ian showered, wincing as the hot water and soap made the raw cuts and welts on his back sting like the dickens.  
  
Half an hour later, he reported to Dr. Immo's lab, feeling a tiny stab of satisfaction when his silent entrance went unnoticed by the gray- haired doctor, who jumped violently when he finally became aware of Ian's presence.  
  
Immo had always been kind to Ian, apologizing profusely for the sometimes agonizing procedures that he'd endured at his hands -- whenever Irons hadn't been observing the treatments that was. When Ian had been a child, Immo would often reward him for his bravery by slipping him a sweet after the ordeal was over, even though his master strictly forbade them. However, Nottingham had never quite been able to disassociate the kindly, unassuming man from his intense hatred of the endless tests, injections, and operations he'd been forced to undergo under the physician's direction. So, he took secret pleasure in the knowledge that Immo was always slightly nervous around him, perhaps because the doctor was intimately acquainted with just what Ian was capable of.  
  
"Oh! You startled me, young Nottingham!" the man said, eyes wide behind the glasses he wore.  
  
Ian just stared at him unblinkingly.  
  
"Here, put this on, and we'll get started."  
  
Hanging his overcoat on a hook on the back of the door to the lab, Ian wordlessly took the proffered examination gown and stepped behind a nearby screen to disrobe. Even though the doctor had treated him nearly his entire life, Ian had been conditioned from an early age to feel extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering his body.  
  
"Mr. Irons tells me your current assignment has proven to be a bit of a distraction to you, young man. He is worried that there may be a pathological reason for your atypical lack of concentration," the doctor said while Ian undressed.  
  
"We both know this is punishment, Dr. Immo, so, please, spare me," Ian said tiredly, coming out from behind the screen.  
  
"This will all be over before you know it, my boy," the doctor said. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the fresh wounds and welts on Ian's back when he turned to climb up on the examination table.  
  
Ian closed his eyes in humiliation as the man pushed open the already gaping gown and more closely examined the evidence of his master's cruelty.  
  
"Tsk, tsk. Some of these are quite deep and may become infected. I'd better give you a precautionary injection of antibiotics," the white- coated physician said. He turned away and opened a cabinet, taking out a syringe and an alcohol swab. Then he bent down and opened a small refrigerator located below the countertop, removing a vial of clear liquid, which he shook until it became cloudy.  
  
"Detective Pezzini is a very beautiful woman, Ian," Immo said, turning around, the now-filled syringe in his hand. "It is perfectly normal for a healthy young man like yourself to find her attractive." He wiped Ian's arm with the alcohol swab.  
  
"I am not comfortable discussing this subject, Doctor," Ian said stiffly, instinctively looking away as the needle went into his flesh. A slight, burning pain spread from the injection site, probably from a minute amount of alcohol that had accidentally entered his vein. However, the discomfort quickly faded.  
  
"Ah, I understand. These feelings and their, um, physical manifestations must be very new and frightening for you. Worry not, young Nottingham, every cloud has a silver lining," the doctor said cheerfully. "Now, let's get the most unpleasant part of your physical out of the way, shall we? We'll start with the examination of your prostate."  
  
'Sara smiled at me last night,' Ian thought desperately. 'A genuine smile. And something I said caused it.' He repeated this to himself over and over, like a mantra.  
  
****  
  
Two-and-a-half hours later, Nottingham left the lab and then the estate, and eagerly headed toward the city to resume his surveillance duties of the Wielder.  
  
Minutes after Ian left Immo's lab, the phone there rang.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Irons?"  
  
"Did you administer the toxin, Dr. Immo?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Excellent. Prepare the antidote, but do not give it to Ian until I specifically order you to do so. Do you understand, Doctor?"  
  
"Perfectly," Dr. Immo said, thinking of the syringe he had concealed in the lining of Ian's overcoat.  
  
It had been fortunate indeed that young Nottingham had chosen to hang up his coat on the hook behind the door instead of slinging it over the screen or tossing it onto the table before changing into his examination gown. The doctor knew that the door was practically the only place in the exam room not captured by the hidden camera via which Irons had no doubt observed his servant's humiliating physical.  
  
His subterfuge would have to suffice. Immo didn't dare openly risk Irons' displeasure, especially where his pet assassin was concerned. Despite his years of loyal service to the man, the doctor was all too aware of the fact that everybody in Irons' employ was expendable. Everybody. Including, unfortunately, Ian Nottingham. The three clones that lay in stasis in the cold room down the hall saw to that.  
  
But what the billionaire hadn't counted on was Immo's unwillingness to let something he'd dedicated the better part of his life to be destroyed on the whim of a megalomaniacal old man. Therefore, the doctor had taken the enormous gamble of hiding in the lining of his overcoat the antidote to the poison even now coursing through the youngster's veins. The boy had at most 72 hours after the onset of symptoms to take the antidote. After that, his condition would in all likelihood rapidly deteriorate until he died.  
  
Dr. Immo could only hope that once Ian started to feel ill, he would recall what the doctor had said to him immediately after he'd injected him with the toxin. Even then, Immo realized, discovering the syringe would require a leap of intuition on the young man's part. However, better than perhaps anyone else -- even the man he called his master -- Dr. Immo knew just how brilliant Ian Nottingham was.  
  
More to come. The feedback is truly inspiring. Thanks to all of you! I'm glad you people are enjoying the story. Keep it coming! 


	12. Chapter 13

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters, but they've told me that they wish I did! ( Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 13.  
  
  
  
Behind the two-way mirror that looked into one of the 11th Precinct's interrogation rooms, Sara Pezzini secretly watched Jake McCartey and Frank Orlinsky question Joey Siri, Jr. in the presence of his parents and the Siri family's lawyer. She felt a swell of pride as the teenager calmly and collectedly told the two detectives about his confrontation with Paco Gutierrez and Amanda Lundquist two nights ago.  
  
Guiltily, Sara noticed a look of surprise, followed swiftly by anger, cross Jake's handsome face after Joey admitted that he had hidden the drug dealer's confiscated weapon in the alley next to the precinct that same night, and then had given it to his aunt, Sara Pezzini, the following morning.  
  
Last night, at Amanda Lundquist's Stuyvesant Town apartment, Sara had taken advantage of the rookie's naiveté and Orlinsky's laziness. Before the two men had arrived, Sara had instructed Amanda not to mention Sara's relationship with Joey when she gave her statement to them. Just as she had feared, both men had wanted to know how Sara had managed to find the girl so quickly. Her glib answer about having recognized her on the street from the description their captain had given her and her partner had sufficed for that stupid bastard Orlinsky, but Sara could tell that Jake suspected there was more to the story than she was letting on.  
  
Sara then informed Jake and Orlinsky that Danny Woo had already visited the home of the girl's boyfriend, and that the kid's parents had agreed to bring him down to the station for questioning first thing in the morning. That seemed to satisfy them, and they hadn't pressed an obviously fragile Amanda Lundquist for specifics on Joey, much to Sara's vast relief.  
  
A few minutes later the girl's parents had arrived, and the difficult task of explaining their daughter's predicament to them had been left to Sara, as Jake hastily busied himself with bagging Amanda's clothing and the drugs and drug money, while Orlinsky had suddenly become absorbed in writing something down in his notebook. Then the two men had taken the increasingly jittery girl to the 11th Precinct for processing, accompanied by her frantic parents, while Sara had headed out to Brooklyn and yet another emotionally draining confrontation, this time with Joey's parents. Once there, she had called the station and learned that Amanda had been remanded to a drug rehab facility until her hearing.  
  
But the shit had hit the proverbial fan once Jake and Orlinsky took Joey's statement the next morning.  
  
Sara could feel the rookie's accusing stare on her as she gave Joey a hug and greeted Robert and Paula Siri once the interview had concluded. She escorted the boy, his worried parents, and their attorney to the door of the station, and wasn't at all surprised to find Jake and Orlinsky waiting for her when she came back upstairs.  
  
"You held out on us," Jake spat, blue eyes blazing.  
  
"Figures," Orlinsky muttered, eyeing Sara distastefully. "Pezzini's a loner, kid. You were fooling yourself if you thought she'd be straight with you. That honor is strictly reserved for her partner and her friend the Medical Examiner, not some wet-behind-the-ears rookie."  
  
"Shut the hell up, Orlinsky," Sara snapped. "As usual, you have no idea what you're talking about!"  
  
But the damage had been done. Jake McCartey was unable to hide his hurt and disillusionment before he turned his back on her and walked away.  
  
Sighing, Sara returned to her office to begin the wait for Mt. Dante to erupt.  
  
"I take it the cat's out of the bag," Danny Woo said as she plopped down dejectedly at her desk.  
  
"Yeah. I expect a certain Neapolitan a-hole to go apeshit any second now," Sara said, grimacing. "Jake is pretty miffed at me, too."  
  
"What'd you expect? We left him and his partner out of the loop in a big way."  
  
"Listen, Danny," Sara said earnestly, "this stink doesn't have to stick to you, too."  
  
"I knew about the gun and Joey's part in this and still kept quiet," Danny pointed out. "I'd say I smell pretty bad right about now."  
  
"Yeah, well, it's my call, and I say stay outta this!" she insisted, her tone harsher than she'd intended.  
  
"Seems like you've been shutting me out a lot lately, Pez," Danny told her, his dark, almond-shaped eyes serious. "We're supposed to be partners."  
  
"This is my family and my problem," Sara said stubbornly. "I can't let you take the blame for any of this."  
  
"Can't or won't?" the slim Asian man said, bitterness coating his words. "You didn't seem so reluctant to involve Vicky."  
  
"Come on, Danny! That's not fair and you know it!" she protested. "I gave that gun to Vic before I realized this was going to turn into a murder investigation."  
  
"And that's another thing," Danny pounced. "Just how did you make the connection to Angel Medina? And I know neither Joey nor Amanda told you about him, so save your breath. I know how the rookie feels: you've been holding out on me, partner, and I don't like it."  
  
'Great,' Sara thought unhappily. 'Now my best friend and partner is starting to question whether he can trust me.' She glanced reproachfully at the innocuous-looking bracelet on her right wrist. 'I oughtta drop you off at the nearest pawn shop.'  
  
"PETZINI!" Captain Bruno Dante roared. "In my office. NOW!"  
  
Surprisingly, Jake gave her a sympathetic look as he had passed her on his way out. Orlinsky just smirked nastily at her.  
  
For the next 35 minutes, Sara stood rigidly erect in front of Dante's desk, stoically enduring the invective being barked at her. The captain barely let her get a word in edgewise, professing not to give a rat's ass about her reasons for her actions. The prick hadn't even bothered to close the door to his office before starting in on her, so by now practically the entire precinct knew Pez was getting called onto the carpet and exactly why.  
  
The homicide division had remained strangely quiet, so most of the detectives pretended to busy themselves with paperwork while avidly listening to the high-decibel diatribe issuing from their captain's office.  
  
Just as she sensed Dante was starting to run out of ways of insulting her intelligence, dedication to and performance of the job, personal grooming habits, and sex in general, Sara caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced around to see the red-haired man Danny had once identified as being a good friend of his from their academy days entering the office she shared with her partner.  
  
"I'd appreciate it if you gave me the respect of your complete attention, Petzini!" Dante snarled, as he noticed the direction of her gaze.  
  
"Sorry, sir," she muttered, fixing her eyes back on a point somewhere above the captain's rapidly thinning head of hair.  
  
An icy silence filled the small office, and she could feel Dante's malicious glare on her. Finally, he made a disgusted noise. "Why do I even bother? You're a disgrace to the badge, Petzini. If it were up to me, I'd bust your ass down to foot patrol. As it is, you're restricted to desk duty until further notice. Dismissed."  
  
Sara stared at him, alarmed. "But, sir, my nephew is still in danger. Until we catch the real murderer -- "  
  
"I SAID DISMISSED!" Dante bellowed.  
  
Sara had no choice but to leave his office and return to her own, gently closing the door behind her instead of slamming it as she badly wanted to do.  
  
"Desk duty until further notice," she muttered in response to Danny's inquiring look.  
  
"Pez, I believe I told you about my buddy Mike who works in narcotics? Mike Morgan, my partner, Sara Pezzini," Danny introduced the man who had risen from the guest chair next to her partner's desk as she entered the office.  
  
"It's nice to finally meet you, Detective," Sara said, shaking hands with him. "Danny has told me quite a few yarns about your academy days."  
  
"Likewise, Detective. And please, call me Mike. Yeah, I knew Woo here before he started shaving. Wait a minute, he still hasn't started!" Mike said, punching Danny lightly in the shoulder and grinning.  
  
"Now, Mike, you know my jaw is girlishly smooth by virtue of my superior Asian genes. Pez, remind me some time to tell you the story of how I found out that the basement matches the attic," Danny said wickedly, eyeing his friend's bright red hair.  
  
"Ah, well, these days only the wife is privy to that info," the narcotics squad detective said with mock sadness. "I know you can relate, my brother."  
  
"Word to the mother," Danny nodded sagely. "By the way, after she got through pussy whipping me last night, Lee told me to tell you she says 'hi' to Angie, otherwise known as your better half and the holder of your cojones."  
  
Sara couldn't help but grin at their banter, but then she remembered what Dante had just told her and the circumstances that had prompted his grossly unfair action.  
  
"So, did you just stop by to relive your wild and crazy and, apparently, at one time naked academy days, Mike, or do you got some info on this, um, situation involving a certain psychotic drug lord?"  
  
The red-haired detective glanced over his shoulder toward Dante's office. Sara saw that once again Jake and Orlinsky were in there behind closed doors, no doubt commiserating with the captain about uppity, unscrupulous female detectives.  
  
"He really reamed you out, hunh?" Mike said, his blue eyes sympathetic. Then he lowered his voice, even though the door to the office was closed. "This is completely off the record, 'cause I could lose my shield if it got out that I gave you a heads up, okay?"  
  
Danny and Sara nodded in unison.  
  
"We got a guy next to Medina who thinks a major shipment is due to arrive within 24 hours," the narcotics detective told them. "Angel is too paranoid to trust anybody but himself and his wackjob of a brother, Joaquin, with the pickup, so we haven't got a fix on the where and when yet."  
  
"So nice when drug lords keep it all in the family, isn't it?" Sara commented wryly, prompting smiles from both men.  
  
"However," Mike continued, "the DEA got a tip from a contact down by the docks that a Dominican freighter due in tomorrow night might be smuggling some real weight. We think that might be the shipment Medina is waiting for. If all goes well, the bust will go down tomorrow around midnight on the docks."  
  
Sara heaved a sigh of relief. "That's the best news I've heard in what feels like weeks, Mike. Thanks for the heads up."  
  
"Yeah, Danny told me that a real good kid was jammed up, and I wanted to help out," the narcotics cop told her. "People haven't forgotten Joe Siri, Sr., Sara. Or James Pezzini for that matter."  
  
Sara was stunned to feel tears prick her eyelids. "Like I said, thanks for looking out, Mike. The Siri family owes you one. I owe you one. Um, I'm gonna go on a coffee run. You guys want some?" she said, surreptitiously wiping the moisture from her eyes as she turned to grab her jacket.  
  
"Thanks, partner. You know how I likes it," Danny said softly.  
  
"Thanks, but I don't think it's a good idea for me to stick around here for much longer," Mike Morgan said. "Bruno Dante is thick as a brick, but eventually even he might make the connection between me and our cases. I'll be in touch with updates whenever I can, though."  
  
"Later then," Sara said, liking the red-haired man more by the second.  
  
"Later."  
  
When she reached the street in front of the 11th Precinct, Sara took a deep, cleansing breath of the markedly cooler air.  
  
The temperature had been dropping steadily since midnight, and the forecasters' predictions for a major snowstorm by the end of the week had grown direr. Sara sincerely hoped they were wrong because winter weather and her only means of transportation did not mix. She hated being forced to take mass transit to get wherever she needed to go; on her salary, cabs were a luxury. Plus, she tended to go a little stir crazy whenever she was deprived for extended an period of time of the adrenaline junky fix that riding her Buell provided.  
  
But right now, Sara's spirits had gotten a major lift courtesy of Danny's buddy from narcotics. She wouldn't truly relax until Angel Medina was behind bars and the undercover detective had testified that the drug lord was the one responsible for Paco Gutierrez's death. Knowing that the end of Joey's quandary appeared to be in sight did wonders for her mood.  
  
Then Sara felt the Witchblade swirl warmly on her wrist, and some of her newfound good humor dissipated. Sure enough, when she glanced into the alley that ran alongside the 11th Precinct, she spotted the black-clad man who shadowed her every move lurking there.  
  
"Hey, Nottingham," she said, walking up to him for absolutely no good reason at all.  
  
"'Mine eyes and heart are at a mortal war, how to divide the conquest of thy sight,'" he said softly, without looking at her. His long hair was loose, the dark waves effectively concealing his expression.  
  
"Uh, okay," Sara said, bristling just a little. "Are we back to being Mr. Cryptic? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, the straight-talking thing was really working for you."  
  
"Earlier this morning, I saw young Joseph leave the station with his parents and a gentleman I presume is his lawyer. I was glad to see that he had not been taken into custody on suspicion of murder," Nottingham said, ignoring her sarcasm.  
  
"No, and if all goes well, he won't be. Vicky's going to hold off on presenting her complete findings until tomorrow, but the gun, drugs, money, and the clothing both Joey and Amanda were wearing that night have been entered into evidence," Sara told him. "And Amanda corroborated Joey's story."  
  
"Has a suspect in the murder been apprehended?" the assassin asked. He still hadn't made eye contact with her, appearing to be fascinated with the toes of his boots.  
  
"Not yet, but Danny's contact in narcotics says a major drug bust may go down tomorrow night. They're looking to grab up a guy by the name of Angel Medina, who's the supplier for the Alphabet City territory," Sara said, and then wondered why she was trusting the assassin with this highly sensitive information. Although her scant night's sleep had been far from restful, she could no longer blame her honesty on her emotionally wrung-out state of exhaustion, which is what she had done last night immediately after her otherwise inexplicably amicable encounter with this unsettlingly enigmatic man.  
  
"I take it he is the one the Witchblade's vision identified as Paco's killer."  
  
"Yeah," she said, fidgeting nervously with the bracelet. Sara got the distinct impression that the dark-haired man was simply getting confirmation for something he'd already figured out. She was slowly beginning to realize that there was a lot more to Ian Nottingham than simply being Kenneth Irons' bodyguard and henchman.  
  
"Was your captain very angry with you, Sara?" he surprised her by asking.  
  
"That's putting it lightly. He really tore into my hide," she said, and thought she saw Nottingham grimace slightly at her words. "I'm on desk duty until further notice."  
  
"If there is anything I can do to help ensure this Angel Medina gets put behind bars where he belongs, you need only ask, my Lady," Nottingham told her, looking up for the first time.  
  
Sara's first thought was that his eyes were darker than normal, their usual brilliance slightly dulled, perhaps by weariness. But he looked down at his feet again so quickly, that brief impression was all she got.  
  
She started to ask him if he was all right, then caught herself. What did she care? This was her stalker, for Christ's sake! Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right with the assassin -- aside from him being a cold-blooded, possibly psychotic hired killer that was.  
  
"Thanks, but I think narcotics and the DEA have got it covered. Well, I'm off to get coffee and then to ride my desk until Dante gets over himself. So, I guess you're free to do . . . errands, or whatever, for Irons. I won't be going anywhere today."  
  
"I have my orders, and they are to stay close to you, my Lady," Nottingham said quietly.  
  
"Well, it's getting kind of cold out here, so try to stay warm," Sara told him, and then blinked in bafflement.  
  
'Where the hell did that come from?' she asked herself disgustedly, giving her head a little shake. 'What am I, his freakin' mother?'  
  
"Your concern, while touching, is unfounded, Sara," the black-clad man said, a tad too smugly for her liking. "I have endured much harsher conditions than these. I will be fine."  
  
"Whatever. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya." She turned and stalked away, telling herself that she would not look back, especially after that extremely lame comeback.  
  
But she couldn't resist sneaking a quick peek over her shoulder as she reached the mouth of the alleyway. She frowned to see that Nottingham still stood there in the lengthening shadows, motionless, head down, and she felt a flash of irritation as concern for her stalker crept into her consciousness before she could banish it to whatever bizarre corner of her mind it had come from.  
  
****  
  
The rest of the day crawled by owing to the fact that all Sara had to keep her occupied was paperwork. Just about the only good thing about being restricted to desk duty was that she was making considerable headway on a stack that had begun to resemble a small skyscraper.  
  
Jake McCartey stopped by to visit her shortly after she finished eating her lunch, bringing with him a peace offering of Starbucks coffee.  
  
"Double espresso, black, no sugar, right?" Jake said handing her a cup.  
  
"Yeah. Thanks, Jake," Sara said, surprised at the gesture because she had expected the rookie to still be angry with her.  
  
"Look, Sara, I'm sorry I was such a prick earlier," Jake said sincerely. "When I stopped by her office to submit Joey's clothes into evidence, Vicky told me how bad you felt about having to lie about your relationship with Joey and about the gun until you could talk to his parents. She said there was no way you could have known the John Doe she was autopsying was Paco Gutierrez until after she called to tell you his fingerprints matched those on the gun. I realize now that you were just trying to protect Joey. I just want you to know there's no hard feelings."  
  
'Thank you, Vicky Po!' Sara thought gratefully. 'I owe you big time.'  
  
"I should have been up front with you about Joey, Jake," she conceded, "but all I could think about was damage control. I had no idea that the gun was connected to your case when I gave it to Vicky, or that this whole thing was going to snowball the way it did. Although, frankly, if you're stupid enough to deal drugs like Paco did, chances are your case is going to cross our desks sooner or later."  
  
"Amen to that," Jake agreed, his ready grin making a welcome reappearance.  
  
"So, we straight?"  
  
"Yeah. But, boy, Dante really tore you a new one, hunh?" he said ruefully, shaking his always disheveled blond head. "The minute I heard Joey say he'd come to you for help on the sly, I knew Cap was going to go ballistic."  
  
"Not that this is any justification for him being such a gaping asshole, but I don't think Dante was thrilled to learn that the kid I stepped up to bat for is his predecessor's namesake. Guaranteed, he's going to spin it to Joe Siri, Sr. that he refrained from busting my ass down to neighborhood watch as a favor to him, instead of earning points by quietly looking out for a former Brother in Blue's grandson," Sara confided to him, shaking her head in disgust.  
  
"Yeah, there's no love lost between those two -- or between you and Dante, for that matter -- that's for damn sure," Jake acknowledged quietly. "I haven't been here that long and all, but even I figured that out."  
  
"Hey, don't sell yourself short, Rookie," Sara said truthfully. "I know Orlinsky is a waste of gray matter, but last night you were pretty damn quick to pick up on the fact that something wasn't quite right with my story about how I found the girl so fast. You have all the right instincts to one day be really good at this often lousy job."  
  
The young native Californian's fair skin actually flushed with pleasure at her compliment, which elicited a gentle smile of amusement from Sara.  
  
"Coming from you, Detective Pezzini," Jake said sincerely, "that's real praise."  
  
"Awww, a love fest," Danny Woo said from the door to their office. "Toadying up to your superiors again, Rookie? And where the hell's my Starbucks?"  
  
"Just checking to see if your partner had any hide left after that flaying Dante laid on her," Jake said, and for some reason, his words made Sara think of Ian Nottingham and their stranger-than-normal encounter in the alley earlier.  
  
The rookie detective's suddenly serious blue eyes met Danny's dark- brown ones. "Funny, I don't seem to recall seeing you in Dante's office owning up to your part in this little charade," he said coolly.  
  
"Not my call, dude," Danny said instantly, glancing meaningfully at Sara, "not my call."  
  
"Oh, ho! So, that's who wears the pants in this partnership! I knew it!" Jake chortled evilly.  
  
Sara cackled appreciatively at his jibe, raising her hand to the younger man for a high five. Their palms met with a resounding smack.  
  
"Awww, man, that was a low blow," Danny Woo moaned.  
  
And just like that the tension in the small office vanished as if it had never existed.  
  
  
  
More to come. Please, keep supplying that feedback. It really stokes my ego, uh, I mean, inspires me to greatness. Thanks!  
  
  
  
P.S. Ian's first words to Sara are from a Shakespeare sonnet, in case anybody was wondering. 


	13. Chapter 14

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. However, I am seriously in love with Ian Nottingham. Can you tell? And, unfortunately, you always hurt the one you love, eh? Anywho, I'm just playing. Please don't sue me. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 14.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham stood on the roof of the building across from the 11th Precinct, watching the comings and goings of the station's voluntary and involuntary inhabitants.  
  
He had barely arrived at the Wielder's loft in time to follow her to her workplace. During the drive from the estate, discomfort from the cuts and welts on his back had kept intruding on his thoughts, so much so, Ian had finally broken down and taken a pain pill. But either it hadn't kicked in yet or his abused skin was too agitated from the clothing rubbing against it for the medication to have much effect, because his back still felt like it was on fire.  
  
Usually, owing to his body's accelerated healing ability, the welts calmed down and the cuts scabbed over within hours, but for whatever reason, this had not been the case with the damage left by his latest beating. Ian chalked it up to his recent lack of sleep and the exertions required of him to complete the cardiopulmonary tests for his exhaustively comprehensive physical.  
  
About half an hour after Sara arrived at the precinct, Ian saw a late- model sedan pull into a parking space usually reserved for one of the precinct's officers. Joseph Siri, Jr. got out of the car first, followed by a man and a woman he instantly identified as the boy's parents from the photographs in the Wielder's dossier. Last of all, an older man carrying a briefcase exited the vehicle. Ian surmised that this individual was the Siri family's attorney.  
  
Through his scope, Ian could see the sober expression on the teenager's face as well as how uncomfortable he looked in his dark, formal suit. Both of his parents wore worried expressions, and the mother looked like she had been weeping. The group went into the stationhouse, and Ian waited tensely for them to reappear, heaving a sigh of relief when they did so about an hour later. His heart rate sped up when he glimpsed his Lady at the stationhouse door, but she did not linger, vanishing back inside once she bid farewell to her nephew and his parents.  
  
Expectantly, he trained his scope on the window that looked into Captain Bruno Dante's office. Shortly after Joseph departed, he spied the young, blond rookie detective named Jacob McCartey and the nearly bald, middle-aged man he recognized as Detective Frank Orlinsky enter their captain's office. Scant minutes later, the two detectives left as the Wielder was summoned to the office. For the next 35 minutes, Ian watched as Sara stood stiffly in front of Dante's desk, her face devoid of expression, as she apparently was lectured on the error of her ways regarding her cover-up of her nephew's and his girlfriend's misdeeds.  
  
It did not surprise him that she stood there alone for he had guessed that she would stubbornly refuse to let her partner share in the blame for her actions. From what little Ian knew about Detective Daniel Woo, he was pretty certain this had not set well with the man.  
  
When Sara finally left Dante's office, he abandoned his lofty vantage point and went to wait in the alley next to the precinct for her next coffee run.  
  
If there was one thing that was predictable about the Wielder's behavior, it was that she or her partner would venture outside several times a day to acquire the copious amounts of coffee necessary to satisfy their raging caffeine addictions. Ian had quickly learned that his Lady's mood vastly improved once she had blunted the edge of her quick temper with several preferably extremely strong cups of the beverage. Drunk black, no sugar. Whenever possible, he tried not to approach her before she'd consumed at least 40 ounces of the stuff. And that was usually before she left her loft for work.  
  
Sure enough, less than an hour after her dressing down, she had exited the precinct and begun to walk toward the Greek diner from which she and her partner regularly purchased their coffee, the same one she had taken young Joseph to yesterday. But then she had noticed his presence in the alley, catching him off guard by walking right up to him with a surprisingly mild greeting.  
  
Suddenly, Ian found himself unable to look her in the face. Shame filled him as he remembered how cravenly he'd clung to the memory of her smile to help him get through the beating last night and then the hated and humiliating physical he'd been subjected to earlier that morning. His face burned as he realized that he'd actually given voice to the lines from a Shakespearean sonnet that had popped into his head at the sight of her.  
  
Such a confusion of emotions swirled around his brain, that he could barely focus on his assigned task, which was to glean as much information as he could about the murder investigation involving her nephew.  
  
The Wielder had been surprisingly forthcoming about the status of the case, and her relief that an end to young Joseph's troubles appeared to be in sight was palpable. He sensed her surprise when he asked her about the severity of the tongue-lashing she'd no doubt received from her captain. Ian could not suppress a grimace at the irony of the euphemism she couched her response in, especially since the evidence of his own, unfortunately all-too-literal hiding was still causing him considerable pain.  
  
He felt a stab of something very close to despair as her customary wariness returned after he offered her his services in bringing to justice the drug lord who'd murdered Paco Gutierrez -- although, to be perfectly honest, Ian knew that this Angel Medina's chances of actually being apprehended alive vastly increased if he were left out of the equation, and he was certain Lady Sara was aware of this.  
  
When he finally worked up the courage to risk meeting her beautiful green eyes, he was stunned to see something akin to concern in them when she glimpsed his discomfort. But it disappeared so swiftly, he told himself he must have imagined it. Still, there could be no doubt that she did care about his well-being when she said "Well, it's getting kind of cold out here, so try to stay warm."  
  
Ian decided they were both equally astonished at this pronouncement.  
  
Unfortunately, the Wielder's temper inexplicably flared moments later when he admitted to being touched by her unwarranted concern about his exposure to the elements, and he sighed as she marched away haughtily after one last flippant remark.  
  
Truth be told, however, the precipitous drop in the temperature became more and more noticeable as the day wore on, and he made a mental note to himself to wear his coat with the fur lining and collar on the morrow.  
  
No, Ian wistfully acknowledged, with his aching back and inadequate clothing, Lady Sara was absolutely right in surmising that she wouldn't want to be him. And contrary to her assertion that she would see him later, it turned out that they did not meet face to face again that day.  
  
Heedful of his master's instructions, particularly given the stinging physical reminders of what had happened the last time he'd failed to provide him with timely updates, he called and informed Irons of the latest developments in the case.  
  
Ian felt a mild sense of surprise when, after he finished his report, his master asked him how he was feeling.  
  
"Penitent," he replied prudently after only a moment's hesitation, and was rewarded with a rare chuckle from Irons.  
  
And while this sound of genuine amusement hadn't afforded him the almost spiritual fortification that his Lady's smile had, it warmed him sufficiently to enable him to endure the remaining hours of his surveillance duties, during which the air temperature continued to plummet.  
  
By the time he returned to the estate shortly before midnight, he felt as if the chill had settled in his very bones. A long shower, the water as hot as he could stand it, helped somewhat, but left him strangely enervated and exacerbated the still inflamed wounds on his back. It was with profound relief that he fell into his bed, only to have his sleep plagued by vivid nightmares of poisonous serpents sinking their fangs into him over and over again.  
  
****  
  
The next morning, slightly before 06:00, Ian was awakened by Irons summoning him to join him for breakfast.  
  
A wave of dizziness gripped him as he sat up, and the room spun nauseatingly for several seconds. Alarmed, he started to reach for the bedside phone with the intention of calling Dr. Immo, but he hesitated as he realized that if Irons discovered he was unwell, he would in all likelihood order him to stay home for the day, leaving the Wielder unprotected.  
  
Taking deep, cleansing breaths, Ian attempted to meditate, noting with concern the way his entire body ached, as though he'd been pummeled by several extremely angry men instead of whipped by one furious man two nights ago. There was also an irritating tickle at the back of his throat and his head felt as though it were filled with a gallon of thick liquid, some of which insisted on trickling out of his nose with maddening regularity. No matter how many times he blew it, his nose still oozed copious amounts of the viscous substance. The wounds on his back had formed scabs overnight, but any sudden move pulled at the deeper wounds, making them split open and begin bleeding afresh.  
  
Ian's heart sank as he peered at his reflection in the mirror in the bathroom and noted the unnatural pallor of his skin and his bloodshot eyes. Irons was certain to notice that all was not well with his usually extremely healthy servant.  
  
But there was nothing for it. He had been summoned and so he must attend his master. He took a quick shower in the hopes that it would clear the fog that seemed be to swaddling his brain, and was relieved when it seemed to help a bit. Although he knew he was taking far too long to join Irons, he took the time to trim his beard and mustache and comb his hair neatly. He also dressed with great care, hoping that his impeccable appearance would offset the slight glassiness of his eyes and too pale skin. Stuffing a wad of tissues into his pants pocket, he grabbed his overcoat and headed down to the dining room.  
  
"Ah, here you are at last, young Nottingham," Kenneth Irons said, not looking up from his Financial Times at Ian's quiet entrance. "Help yourself to some food and sit down."  
  
Ian dutifully took up a plate, but felt a swell of nausea at the sight and scent of the crepes, omelettes, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, toast, and muffins laid out on the sideboard. However, not wanting to arouse his employer's suspicions by refusing nourishment, he loaded his plate and went to sit at his customary spot, halfway down the table, hoping he could pretend to eat heartily enough to fool his master into thinking all was well.  
  
That hope was dashed when Irons glanced up and indicated the place setting immediately to his left. "Sit here, Ian, I want to discuss something with you," he ordered.  
  
Silently, Ian took the specified seat and began methodically consuming the food that his body kept sending him emphatic signals it did not want. Surreptitiously, he wiped his runny nose as often as he thought it safe to do so.  
  
After several minutes, he could feel Irons eyes on him as he ate, but he kept his own eyes on his almost empty plate  
  
"You are awfully quiet this morning, young Nottingham," Kenneth said suddenly, almost making the younger man flinch.  
  
Ian allowed his gaze to meet his master's for a split second. "You once told me you detested small talk, Master," he murmured, washing down the last bite of omelette with some water. His belly roiled unhappily, and he wondered miserably if his appearance fit the saying "green around the gills." Everything he had just eaten felt as though it was sitting right beneath his breastbone, and his stomach was threatening to expel it with Vesuvian force. For a moment, he fantasized about aiming the impending geyser of vomit at his employer, imagining with perverse delight the look of astonishment on Kenneth's face as he was covered with the foul stuff. For some reason, this imagery calmed his stomach, but it also almost made him burst out laughing -- something that probably would have shocked Irons to greater degree than being thrown up upon.  
  
"Tell me, Ian, do you honestly think the Wielder will be content to sit by and do nothing as this drug bust takes place tonight?" his employer asked him.  
  
"Doubtful, sir," Ian said without hesitation. "She will most likely be unable to resist going to the location and observing the operation, even if it is from afar. I doubt she will do anything to jeopardize the success of the endeavor, but she would probably step in if it looked like things were going badly for the law enforcement personnel involved."  
  
"I concur. You must stay very close to her today and tonight, young Nottingham. Find out precisely where this drug bust is going to take place, and whatever happens, see to it that no harm befalls Sara Pezzini. And, Ian, keep me apprised of developments."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
With a flick of his newspaper, Irons dismissed his servant.  
  
Ian left the estate shortly thereafter, but only after judiciously fortifying his arsenal of weapons.  
  
Thankfully, his breakfast appeared to have settled in his stomach and he felt a little more clearheaded. It wasn't until he was halfway to the city that he remembered he had forgotten to wear his heavy winter coat even though it was even colder out today than it had been yesterday.  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Keep that feedback coming. Please? 


	14. Chapter 15

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just fooling around. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 15.  
  
  
  
Sara Pezzini clattered down the steps that led to the street from her loft. She was, as usual, running late. So late, she hadn't had time for more than two mugs of coffee and some toast for breakfast. Stale toast. But because she didn't want to risk the Wrath of Dante by showing up past 9:00 a.m., she had gulped down the two mugfuls hastily, nearly scalding her mouth in the process, and pounded the toast (dry, because she'd run out of butter, jam, and even her spread of last resort, chocolate syrup). She needed to go shopping in a big way.  
  
The cold air hit her like a right hook, and she quickly zipped up her leather jacket, which really wasn't adequate protection against temperatures this low. Sara glanced up at the sky and her heart sank as she noticed that clouds were beginning to roll in on a wind that cut her exposed skin like a knife. The thin, wispy skeins were most likely the harbingers of the storm the forecasters kept insisting was coming. Ominously, the meteorologists were starting to use the "B" word on the TV and radio. She hated any kind of icy precipitation because it prevented her from riding her beloved motorcycle, but she prayed there wasn't going to be a blizzard. New York City tended to shut down when more than a foot of snow fell on it, and the predictions being thrown about were for in excess of two feet of the white stuff.  
  
As Sara entered the alley where she always parked her Buell, she heard a loud sneeze, followed in quick succession by two more, equally as explosive as the first. The Witchblade stroked her wrist with warmth, pulsing gently.  
  
"Nottingham?" she called, peering into the shadows toward the end of the alley. "Is that you?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady."  
  
Sara could not refrain from smiling at how nasal his voice sounded. "Um, sneezing that loud kinda ruins the whole stealthy stalker thing, you know. Maybe you should take a cold pill or something," she said.  
  
"I do not have a cold," her stalker said, remaining in the shadows.  
  
"Oh, we're in denial, are we?" she said, starting to walk toward him.  
  
"You are going to be late for work, Sara," Nottingham said before she could take more than a couple of steps.  
  
"Shit! You're right. Catch you later in the alley next to the house!"  
  
'There's a whole world of things wrong with that last thing you said, woman,' Sara thought as she put her helmet on and straddled the Buell. 'Stay the hell away from that alley, Sara. Just walk on by and ignore your stalker,' she repeated sternly to herself as started the engine and then sped toward the 11th Precinct.  
  
She got to her desk at 9:09, earning a glare from Dante but, thankfully, nothing else.  
  
"Mornin', partner," Danny Woo said. "Oversleep?"  
  
"More like overtossed. Took me until nearly 3:00 a.m. to finally fall asleep, then I had the most hellacious dream about getting bitten by a shitload of snakes. Woke back up at 4:30. Then I tossed and turned some more. Of course, just when I start to drift off again, BANG! The freakin' alarm goes off," she griped, plopping down at her desk and rubbing her face tiredly.  
  
"Maybe this will help," her partner said, handing her a cup of Starbucks.  
  
"You are a god, Daniel Woo," Sara said, practically snatching it from him. Although not as hot as she preferred it to be, the rich, dark coffee was excellent nonetheless. "Any word from our, um, source in narcotics?"  
  
He shook his head. "Nothing yet. I would have already told you if there was, Pez."  
  
"I know, I know. I'm just a little wired from lack of sleep and stress."  
  
"Waiting around sucks. Weird how slow it's been, too. It's like the whole city is waiting for something big to happen."  
  
"Hopefully, it'll be a good old-fashioned massacre instead of a damn blizzard."  
  
"Want me to pick up a MetroCard for you tomorrow morning?" Danny teased her.  
  
Sara pretended to glare at him. "Okay, you're officially out of my good graces, Woo."  
  
"Wow, that was fast! Usually, a cup of Starbucks buys me at least three more wisecracks."  
  
"Not today, oh, Wise Asian Master. This is only my third cup!"  
  
"Shutting up now."  
  
Sara settled in to do some more of the hated paperwork, but found it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to a certain alley that ran alongside the precinct, or, more accurately, to the sickly man who was most likely standing out there in the freezing cold. After a couple of hours, she couldn't stand it any longer.  
  
"Going for a coffee run," she said, jumping up and grabbing her jacket.  
  
"Yes, please!" Danny said, not even looking up from his own paperwork.  
  
Before leaving, Sara rummaged around in her desk drawer until she found a knit cap that had been in there since last winter. Pulling it over her gleaming, chestnut-brown hair, she headed outside into the bitter cold.  
  
As she came abreast of the alley next to the 11th Precinct, the Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, but it needn't have bothered: the sound of a hacking cough echoed through the shadowy passageway.  
  
"Doesn't sound too good, Nottingham," she said, walking up to him before she could lose her nerve.  
  
He didn't respond, just kept his face averted as he removed a wad of sodden tissues from his pants pocket and ineffectively wiped his streaming nose with them.  
  
Sara frowned to see that his head was bare and that his too-thin coat was gaping open. "How long have you been feeling sick?"  
  
"I am not sick," he rasped, and promptly went off on another coughing jag.  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really? Then what is with the coughing, sneezing, and runny nose?"  
  
"It is a test," he said, so softly she wasn't sure she heard him correctly.  
  
"Excuse me?" she said. "Did you say it's a test?"  
  
But he didn't say anything else, just stood there looking miserable.  
  
Sara threw up her hands in exasperation. "You should be home in bed, Nottingham. Not standing out here in the cold."  
  
"I have my or--"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, your freakin' orders, I know," she cut him off impatiently.  
  
Sara stared at him, taking in his unhealthy pallor and the fact that, although he tried to hide it, he was shivering violently. She came to a decision. "Come on," she said, and started walking toward the mouth of the alley.  
  
Nottingham did not move. "Where are you going?" he asked thickly.  
  
"Just come on. You're supposed to stay close to me, right? Well, I've got to go check something out, so are you coming or not?"  
  
"I thought you were restricted to desk duty, Sara," her stalker said, but he started to follow her, moving with little of his usual confident grace.  
  
"This isn't police work. I need to go ask a friend for a favor. It's not far," she told him.  
  
They walked the next few blocks in silence, punctuated only by the black-clad man's sneezing and coughing fits.  
  
But when they approached a familiar building, Ian Nottingham stopped short, glancing up toward the third-story windows. "This is Gabriel Bowman's building," he said suspiciously.  
  
"Yeah, and it's only four blocks from the station. I'm gonna ask Gabriel if you can hang out here until I get off work. You were right about me still being on desk duty, which means I'm not going anywhere. No reason you should stand out in the freezing cold when you could be inside someplace warm," she told him.  
  
He shook his dark head. "I do not feel comfortable with this course of action, my Lady. Besides, Mr. Bowman and I have . . . issues. I very much doubt he will acquiesce to your suggestion."  
  
"You mean like when you threatened to torture him to death if he didn't stop helping me learn about the Witchblade?" Sara said baldly.  
  
"Yes, that is the incident that immediately comes to mind."  
  
"Bygones," she said dismissively, ignoring his disbelieving look. "But just to be safe, maybe you'd better stay out of camera range until he buzzes me in."  
  
Sara waited until the assassin had moved the necessary distance away before pushing the button marked "Talismaniac" on the intercom.  
  
"Yo."  
  
"Gabriel, it's me, Sara."  
  
"Hey, Chief, long time no hear from!"  
  
"Yeah, it's been killer, uh, really, really busy at work. Listen, can I come up? I need to ask you for a big favor."  
  
"Sure thing, Chief."  
  
He buzzed her in.  
  
Ian Nottingham waited until just before the door had closed behind her to slip inside. They headed for the freight elevator. As it jerked into motion, Sara noticed the tall, dark-haired man swallow hard.  
  
"Are you okay, Nottingham?"  
  
"I really do not think this is a good idea, Lady Sara," he mumbled, absently rubbing his stomach.  
  
"Yeah, well, call me crazy, but I just don't think somebody as sick as you obviously are should be standing out in the cold on my account, I don't care who ordered it," she said firmly.  
  
The elevator reached the third floor, stopping with a slight bouncing motion. Sara thought she heard a soft moan escape the black-clad man next to her, and she saw that his face had taken on a ghastly greenish cast.  
  
"You really don't look so hot," she told him, lifting the doors and stepping out of the elevator.  
  
"I do not feel so hot," he surprised her by admitting, following her into the hallway.  
  
The door to Gabriel's apartment was ajar. A sign on it said "Talismaniac." Music blasted from within. The Who's Baba O'Reilly.  
  
"Wait out here while I go butter him up, Nottingham."  
  
He nodded, sinking wearily to his haunches.  
  
"Hey, Gabe, how's it going?" Sara shouted, as she entered the apartment that doubled as the young man's place of business.  
  
Gabriel Bowman came out of his kitchen holding two mugs of coffee, one of which he offered to her. "Hey, Chief. Business is great. Just got in a shipment of stuff. How you been?"  
  
"Good, good. Can you dial it down a bit, so we don't have to yell at each other?" she requested.  
  
"For you, anything. Although this part right here rocks!" He did a goofy little dance as the insanely skirling instrumental segment of the song came to a crescendo, then mercifully turned the volume way down.  
  
"Thanks," Sara muttered, taking a sip of her coffee, "and thanks for the java."  
  
"Anytime. What can I do you for?" the dark-haired, extremely fair- skinned young man asked, setting his own mug down on one of the many display cases scattered throughout the main room of the apartment.  
  
Gabriel Bowman was a self-made entrepreneur, buying and selling all manner of strange and intriguing esoterica, ranging from the macabre like the collection of shrunken heads staring creepily at Sara from across the room to more mundane items like Hollywood memorabilia. He was also a whiz on the computer and, in addition to telling her whatever he could learn about the ancient, sentient weapon she wore on her right wrist, had helped Sara research many of the arcane symbols and talismans that had begun to turn up at her crime scenes with distressing regularity ever since the Witchblade had chosen her as its next Wielder.  
  
"I need to ask you for a huge favor, buddy," Sara said to him, noting with some amusement the blindingly bright Nehru jacket and paisley bell bottoms that he wore. The outfit could have come straight off a Jimi Hendrix album cover, and very well might have.  
  
"Just how huge a favor are we talking about?"  
  
"Gigantic. I will owe you big time if you do this for me," she told him.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"I need you to let a . . . somebody crash here for a few hours. Just 'til I get off from work." Sara had barely caught herself before saying 'a friend.'  
  
"A . . . somebody?" the young man said, picking up on her hesitation.  
  
"Yeah. It's Nottingham," she blurted out, deciding to just go for it.  
  
Gabriel stared at her incredulously. "You're joking, right?"  
  
"No, I'm not. Look, Gabe, he's really sick and it's really cold outside. It would only be for a few hours," she said again, a pleading look on her face.  
  
"We are talking about the same Ian Nottingham who not two months ago, in this very room, threatened to torture me to death, right? Tall, dark, homicidal tendencies? Oh, yeah, and, in case you forgot, who also happens to be stalking you!"  
  
"Yeah, you know he's really sorry about the threatening-you-with- torture thing, aren't you, Nottingham?" Sara directed her words out the still open front door.  
  
"No, not really," came the soft but clear reply from the hallway.  
  
Gabriel's dark eyes widened in alarm. "Mr. I'd-Kill-You-Just-as-Soon- as-Look-at-You is out there in my hallway right now?"  
  
"Yeah, I sort of let him in," Sara said apologetically. "Would a little remorse have killed you here, Nottingham?" she hissed out the door, frowning when all she heard in response from the assassin was another of those tiny moans.  
  
"Let me get this straight, Chief. You're asking me to provide day care for your psychotic stalker because he's sick?"  
  
She thought about this for a moment. "Yeah, that about covers it."  
  
"Should I even question whether this is a Witchblade-inspired episode?"  
  
Sara looked at the bracelet's gently glowing stone expectantly. "Well? Go on, answer him!" she prompted it, than sighed when, of course, nothing happened. "Did I mention that I'll really, really owe you for this and that it'll only be for five, six hours tops?"  
  
Now it was Gabriel's turn to sigh. "You are so right about owing me for this, Chief."  
  
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she beamed, giving him a hug. "Nottingham, you can come in now."  
  
Gabriel couldn't stop himself from taking several steps back as the big, black-clad assassin suddenly appeared in the doorway.  
  
'Wow! He really does look crappy. Kind of green around the gills,' the younger man thought, stunned by the man's haggard appearance.  
  
Then Sara noticed that Nottingham's eyes were darting around the apartment rather wildly.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked, alarmed.  
  
"I am . . . unwell," he said through clenched teeth. "Must . . . find . . . bathroom." And with no more warning than that, he doubled over and vomited copiously onto the floor.  
  
Gabriel closed his eyes tight. "No, he did not just ralph all over my floor."  
  
"Uh, Gabriel, you, um, might want to grab a bucket or something, 'cause I don't think he's done," Sara said, trying to breathe through her mouth so that her friend didn't have an even bigger mess to clean up. "Nottingham, don't try to hold it back," she advised, watching his pitiful struggle to keep the rest of his breakfast from coming up. "It's a force of nature and won't be denied." She started to reach out to rub his back comfortingly, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, only slightly freaked by the impulse.  
  
"Sure, spew on my floor some more, why don't you? Be my guest!" their disgruntled host invited sarcastically. He was fumbling around behind one of the display cases, all the while muttering words that, although in another language, were still easily identifiable as curses.  
  
"Here," Gabriel said, thrusting a silver bucket at the gagging man. "You owe me $3,000. That ice bucket was featured in Ocean's 11 -- the original version, of course -- and then it was given to the movie's star, Frank Sinatra. I had a client interested in it, too, but somehow I doubt re-christening it with puke is what she had in mind for it."  
  
Ian looked up at Sara through mortified, watering eyes. "I am sorry, my Lady."  
  
"S'okay, Nottingham," she told him, then winced when another spasm of nausea forced him to use Ol' Blue Eyes' ice bucket in a manner for which it had never been intended.  
  
"I don't know why he's apologizing to you," Gabriel grumbled, "it's my floor he hurled on."  
  
"At least you weren't in the danger zone," Sara said, looking at her boots and the bottom of her jeans, which were liberally spattered with the stuff that Nottingham's body was busy vigorously expelling. "Get me a mop and a bucket, and I'll clean this up," she told the miffed young man.  
  
"Nah. You better get back to the station, Chief. I got this."  
  
"You're a real peach, Gabe. Five hours, tops!" she promised, carefully stepping over the foul-smelling puddle and heading toward the door.  
  
"Great. Then the Deadliest-Assassin-in-the-Solar-System's stalkee will come back, pick up her stalker, take him home, and tuck him into bed, earning points with his black-hearted bastard of a boss in the process. Is that it, Sara?" Gabriel said acidly.  
  
Sara paused at the door, leveling a serious look at her friend. "Kenny gives me the warm and fuzzies, too, Gabriel. He must have known Nottingham was sick, but he still sent him out in the freezing cold to shadow me. I won't stand by and let anybody suffer on my account, not even my stalker," she said quietly. "You should know that about me by now."  
  
Sighing, the young, rosy-cheeked businessman relented. "Yeah, I do know that about you. It's one of the reasons I'm glad you're my friend, Chief."  
  
"I'll be back before you know it, kid," Sara smiled affectionately at him, then glanced at her sickly stalker. "Just try to rest, Nottingham. I'll call here in a couple of hours to see how you're feeling. And I'll be back at 5:10 on the dot, okay?"  
  
"You are too kind to this worthless servant, my Lady," Ian whispered, tormented gaze trying but failing to meet hers.  
  
"Don't thank me, thank Gabriel. And behave yourself. No threats!" she admonished him gently.  
  
"Yes, my Lady," he said, bowing his head. "Please be careful. I would not be able to live with myself if harm were to come to you because of my weakness."  
  
"The stationhouse is just four blocks away in broad daylight. Plus, have gun and Witchblade, will travel. I'll be fine," she assured him, getting the distinct and unsettling feeling that he literally meant what he said. "Later, Gabriel, and thanks again."  
  
"Sure, Chief," the proprietor of Talismaniac said. "See you later."  
  
"Please, Mr. Nottingham, come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home," she heard Gabriel say to the other man as she headed out the door. "But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."  
  
  
  
More to come. Feed me feedback! Please? 


	15. Chapter 16

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 16.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham parked his car two blocks from the building that housed Sara Pezzini's loft and reluctantly abandoned its warmth for the bitter cold outside. As he performed his customary perimeter check, he berated himself once again for forgetting to wear not only his heavy winter coat, but also a hat and a scarf. The sharpening wind found every bit of exposed skin, and the below freezing temperatures quickly caused him to start shivering. To make matters worse, instead of just running nonstop, his nose decided to start trying to expel the mucous clogging it with explosive force. He sneezed loudly and repeatedly. Soon, all of the tissues in his possession were a sodden mess.  
  
Ian could never recall feeling quite so ill before, and it was this, combined with the sudden memory of his master's atypically solicitous inquiry regarding his health the day before, that led him to the realization that he had been poisoned.  
  
Thanks to the genetic enhancements he'd undergone, his immune system was ironclad. He never caught colds or the flu. Stomach viruses were also unknown to him. Wounds and even broken bones healed with astounding swiftness, and although he could get infections, they rarely did more than cause him to spike a low-grade fever and almost never required antibiotics.  
  
Ian abruptly remembered the injection Dr. Immo had given him yesterday right before beginning the detested physical, ostensibly to ward off infection from the wounds on his back. He recalled the brief burning pain at the injection site and became convinced that this was when he'd been slipped the toxin that was now wreaking havoc with his system.  
  
Upon completing his perimeter check, Ian faded into the shadows of the alley where Lady Sara always parked her motorcycle, taking out his cell phone.  
  
Kenneth Irons answered on the third ring. "Ah, young Nottingham. Calling with an update so soon?"  
  
"No, Master. The Wielder is running late. She has yet to leave her abode."  
  
"I see. To what, then, do I owe this call?"  
  
"Do you mean for me to die, Master?"  
  
"No, only to feel like you are going to," Irons said coldly, not even bothering to pretend he didn't know what his servant was talking about.  
  
"And the lesson I am supposed to learn from this highly unpleasant experience?" Long ago, Ian had learned that there was almost always a lesson in the things his master did to him or had him do.  
  
"That your perfect obedience and loyalty belong to me and me alone. You were born to protect the Wielder, Ian, but you belong to me. I made you who and what you are. Your very life is mine to do with what I wish. Never forget that."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Now, I trust your symptoms are not affecting your ability to perform your surveillance duties?"  
  
"No, Master."  
  
"Very good. I would be most disappointed in you if that were the case. Make no mistake, young Nottingham: This is a test, and the price of failure is your life." And with that, his master hung up.  
  
A surge of impotent rage filled Ian as he stood there, freezing, in that alley. But then it drained away, leaving him exhausted and depressed. The bitter ring of truth behind Irons' words made it impossible for Ian to hold on to his anger. He acknowledged that he really had only himself to blame for his predicament. His inattention to his duties and pathetic infatuation with the woman he had been tasked with following had combined to force his master to take this drastic step. Deep down, Nottingham had known that Kenneth Irons would never tolerate even a hint of divided loyalties in his bodyguard and henchman. Ian was powerless to do anything other than suffer for as long as his master saw fit. And God help him if his "symptoms" worsened to the point where he was unable to perform his duties. He was under no illusions that Irons would forgive any sign of weakness in his perfectly obedient and loyal killing machine. So, Ian resolved to endure this ordeal with as much dignity as he could muster, to push away the discomfort of his stuffy head, runny nose, incessant sneezing, increasingly sore throat, and body aches. If only it were not so very cold outside and if only he had remembered to dress more warmly, he thought miserably.  
  
Ian's heart rate accelerated as his sharp hearing detected the sound of Sara Pezzini exiting her loft and then descending the stairs to the street, the rapid cadence of her footsteps indicating her haste. Unfortunately, his red and itching nose chose the precise moment she entered the alley to unloose a volley of sneezes, the loud, wet sound of which seemed to linger on the cold air.  
  
Lady Sara paused, peering into the shadows.  
  
'Maybe she will not see me. Maybe she will think it was someone else," Ian thought, but that hope was short-lived as the Wielder identified him.  
  
With her usual sarcasm, Sara rightfully pointed out that his uncontrollable sneezing rendered it impossible for him to remain undetected as was his wont. Typically, his rejection of her suggestion that he take some cold medication owing to the simple fact that he did not have a cold didn't go unchallenged by her. Only his hasty reminder of her impending tardiness forestalled her visual confirmation of the fact that he was indeed ailing. But before she left, the Wielder promised that she would see him in the alley next to the 11th Precinct's stationhouse later that day.  
  
Ian heaved a sigh. He would linger outdoors in that shadowy passageway all day, if need be, just on the off-chance that his Lady might seek him out there.  
  
As it turned out, he only had to wait two hours, during which he became thoroughly chilled despite his attempts to stay warm by pacing and wind-milling his arms. The cold air also tortured his raw throat, and what had formerly been an annoying tickle swiftly graduated into a full-fledged, phlegmy cough. It was in the midst of one particularly harsh coughing jag that the Wielder approached him, observing that this particular manifestation of his ill health did not sound good.  
  
Embarrassed that she had once again caught him betraying a sign of weakness, Ian avoided making eye contact, feeling as though he might actually begin weeping if he looked into her beautiful green eyes and saw genuine concern there. Desperately, he tried to hide the nearly convulsive shivers gripping his body and to hold back the sneezes and coughs that threatened, but with little success.  
  
Unwisely, he contradicted her assertion that he was sick, admitting the truth of the matter, which was that this was a test of his fortitude. He could tell that she did not understand what he meant by that and, as a result, she became exasperated with him. Her frustration deepened into irritation when he indicated that he could not abandon his surveillance duties unless his master expressly ordered him to do so. Or at least he started to inform her of this before she impatiently cut him off.  
  
That was why it was so surprising when Sara invited him to accompany her to the nearby home of a friend from whom, she claimed, she needed to ask a favor. He hesitated, thinking of Irons' displeasure if he ever found out that instead of clandestinely following her at a distance as he'd been instructed to do, he had walked alongside her. But then Ian realized that, as Sara had pointed out earlier, his nonstop sneezing and coughing made any semblance of stealth impossible.  
  
Perhaps it was a factor of just how poorly Ian was feeling that he did not have an inkling of their destination or of Sara Pezzini's plan until he found himself standing in front of Gabriel Bowman's apartment building with her. Then the Wielder stunned him by announcing her intention of having him stay in the young man's abode until she got off work, just so Ian could avoid continued exposure to the elements in his weakened state.  
  
She brushed aside his objections as inconsequential, and proceeded to gain them admittance to the building on the pretext of needing to request the aforementioned favor of Mr. Bowman.  
  
For his part, Ian's thoughts kept returning to his last visit to the younger man's residence. Kenneth Irons had ordered Nottingham to threaten the youthful entrepreneur with bodily harm if he did not immediately desist in his efforts to help the Wielder learn more about the Witchblade. Ian had not enjoyed carrying out the task, but neither had he objected to it.  
  
If he were perfectly honest with himself, Nottingham would admit to a certain amount of jealousy over the friendship and obvious affection between Gabriel Bowman and Sara Pezzini. He begrudged the younger man each and every smile as well as the frequent laughter he seemed to elicit from her with such ease. Plus, he sensed that if given the opportunity, Mr. Bowman would not be at all adverse to deepening their relationship. For that, Ian could not forgive him even though he perfectly understood why it was so. Sara was the sun, moon, and stars. And, at least for Ian Nottingham, just as unattainable. Still, he knew it would destroy him if the other man succeeded where he never would even have the chance to fail.  
  
The bumpy ride up in the large freight elevator, although brief, had the unfortunate effect of upsetting his stomach. Ian tasted bile at the back of his sore, sore throat, and swallowed convulsively, prompting a concerned inquiry from his Lady. Unconsciously rubbing his roiling belly in a futile attempt to soothe it, he reiterated his misgivings about her proposal. Once again, Sara demonstrated why he found her so worthy of his devotion with her honest, sensitive explanation of the reasoning behind her actions. However, as the elevator jounced to a stop on the third floor, Ian was unable to stifle a moan as vicious cramps suddenly twisted his insides.  
  
Eyeing his pale, sweaty face, his Lady observed that he did not look at all well, and he sensed her surprise when he agreed that he felt awful.  
  
He followed her down the hall to the door with the sign that said "Talismaniac" on it, which was slightly ajar, obviously in anticipation of her visit. Sara requested that he wait outside until she had a chance to overcome Mr. Bowman's undoubtedly strenuous objections to her request.  
  
Ian acquiesced, sinking wearily to his haunches and concentrating on quelling the rapidly growing inclination to vomit.  
  
Moments later, the volume on the music that had been blaring at uncomfortably high decibels was mercifully turned down, enabling his acute hearing to pick up the conversation between his Lady and an as yet unsuspecting Gabriel Bowman. When Sara finally came out with the enormity of the boon she was asking of her friend, the younger man immediately brought up the threat to his life that Nottingham had delivered at the behest of his master, just as Ian had expected him to do. He winced at Mr. Bowman's terse, scathing assessment of his mental stability, or lack thereof, and sarcastic reminder of the fact that he was Sara's stalker.  
  
The Wielder then revealed Ian's presence outside the apartment by requesting that he concur with her that he felt remorse about threatening Gabriel.  
  
Ian replied honestly that, no, he did not feel particularly remorseful about the incident, and then immediately felt churlish for doing so in light of what his Lady was attempting to do for him. However, her displeasure at his contrariness barely registered as the pain of his stomach cramps suddenly intensified. Another moan escaped him, and he clenched his teeth against the waves of nausea surging through his suffering body.  
  
Too late, he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Staggering to his feet, he rushed into Gabriel Bowman's apartment, eyes desperately searching for some indication of where the bathroom might be located.  
  
Dimly, he noted the Wielder's look of alarm and the young entrepreneur's obvious fear. As if from a great distance, he heard Sara ask him what was wrong and thought he managed a reply, but then, to his everlasting shame, he doubled over and threw up at her feet, liberally splashing her boots and pants legs with the foul-smelling stuff that gushed out of him.  
  
So great was his humiliation, he felt tears fill his eyes. But his intense embarrassment was not at an end. The cramps wracked him mercilessly, and he trembled with the effort to refrain from vomiting again.  
  
He was absurdly grateful to hear his Lady's gentle advice not to fight the nausea, and then Gabriel Bowman handed him a receptacle in which to catch whatever else came up. Ian barely managed to utter a heartfelt apology for soiling the Wielder before following her suggestion and giving in to the overwhelming urge to expel the rest of his breakfast. He was vaguely aware that Sara and her friend were arguing, but the intensity of the spasms gripping his body made it impossible for him to focus on what they were saying.  
  
The little silver pail had come perilously close to overflowing by the time Lady Sara left her extremely annoyed friend's apartment, instructing Ian to try and get some rest and to refrain from threatening Gabriel Bowman again. She promised to call in couple of hours to see how Nottingham was feeling, and to return to retrieve him at 17:10.  
  
Unable to meet her eyes so deep was his mortification, Ian told her truthfully that her kindness was wasted on a worthless servant such as he. He implored her to take care on her return to the 11th Precinct, telling her that his own life would be forfeit if any harm were to befall her because of his lamentable weakness. Her assurances that she was armed and dangerous did little to allay his concerns, but he stayed behind just to please her.  
  
Gabriel Bowman bid Sara good-bye, and then turned and eyed him warily.  
  
"Please, Mr. Nottingham," he said, "come heave in the comfort of my place of business-slash-home. But just hold off for a few seconds while I empty your new ice bucket for you."  
  
Gingerly, he took the brimming container from Ian and headed further into the apartment, turning down a hallway off of the display room. A minute later, Ian heard a toilet flush, and the young, dark-haired man returned carrying the empty pail.  
  
"Here you go," Gabriel said cheerfully. "Come, crash on the couch. I'm going to make some mint tea. Calms the belly, you know."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Bowman," Ian rasped, following him into what would have been the dining room in a normal apartment setup, but was now more of a parlor.  
  
Gratefully, he folded his cold, aching body onto a large, exceedingly comfortable overstuffed sofa. Unable to resist leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his shivered in misery, the burden of his virtual enslavement to Kenneth Irons weighing heavily upon him.  
  
"Just going to perform, uh, cleanup duties while the water's on to boil," the younger man said, coming out of the kitchen with a roll of paper towels, a sponge mop, and a bucket of steaming, sudsy water in his rubber- gloved hands.  
  
It took almost more energy than Ian possessed to open his eyes and watch this unenviable task being performed. But he forced himself to alertly examine the stark evidence of the depths of his wretchedness, silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  
  
His reluctant host had almost finished cleaning the mess up by the time the kettle shrilled. Gabriel nipped into the kitchen, poured the hot water over the teabags, and then rushed back into the foyer again, plastic bag in hand. He shoveled the mound of sodden paper towels into the bag then carefully tied it closed.  
  
"Be back in a sec," he promised, dashing out of the apartment.  
  
Ian was granted privacy in which to heave into the little silver bucket once again, bringing up bile, but little else. The cramps in his stomach were excruciating. Although he highly doubted dry heaving would help matters much, he felt compelled to try it. As he had suspected, it did nothing to ease his extreme discomfort.  
  
"Okay, mint tea to the rescue. I'll throw a couple of ice cubes in your mug so the remedy can be applied sooner," Mr. Bowman said, breezing back into his home and through to the kitchen. A minute later, he brought out a tray, setting it on the ebony-wood and black marble coffee table in front of the couch.  
  
"Here you go. Honey-sweetened to soothe the bile-abused throat, peppermint to calm the upset tummy," the younger man said, handing him a steaming mug.  
  
"Thank you," Ian murmured, accepting it.  
  
Gabriel nodded, then brought over a box of tissues from the top of a nearby display case, setting them down next to the tray. He stood just out of arm's reach, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, and watching as Ian tentatively sipped his tea. After several minutes had elapsed and it became apparent that Nottingham's nausea had abated, the youthful entrepreneur cautiously edged onto the plush, deep purple velvet settee that was opposite the sofa.  
  
"So, you can catch the flu," he said. "Bummer."  
  
"Susceptible, apparently," Ian replied, "but not to the influenza virus."  
  
"Ah, then you must be suffering from the effects of a toxin of some sort," Gabriel Bowman stunned Ian by immediately deducing.  
  
"Yes," he admitted tersely. He had obviously underestimated both the keenness of the young businessman's intelligence and his knowledge of Ian's "special qualities."  
  
"What the hell did you do to piss off your boss bad enough for him do something as lowdown as this to you?" the rosy-cheeked, deceptively innocent-looking man asked.  
  
Ian lifted his head off the back of the sofa and leveled a stern look at the younger man, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the rivulet of snot that immediately ran down his face. Furiously, he snatched a bunch of tissues from the box on the coffee table and indulged in a thorough nose- blowing session before responding.  
  
"My master's reasons are his own. Should he ever care to share them with you, rest assured, you would have your answer," Nottingham growled hoarsely.  
  
"I think I know why he did it," Mr. Bowman unwisely pursued. "It's because of Sara and how you sometimes help her out. I think you know it, too."  
  
Now Ian did glare menacingly at the other man. "I do not appreciate your useless speculation on this subject," he snapped, then immediately blunted the intended intimidation factor by taking a long slurp of peppermint tea. He was dehydrated and the tea appeared inclined to stay down. Plus, its welcome warmth was slowly but surely thawing him out.  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm just calling it as I see it," Gabriel Bowman told him coolly.  
  
"I threw up at her feet," Ian suddenly found himself saying in a low, infinitely weary voice. "How wretched is that? My humiliation is now complete."  
  
"Yeah, sure, that sucked. But, hey, the Irish have a saying: 'Until you've vomited in someone's presence, they can't truly be called a friend.' At least you've gotten that out of the way with Sara," the young entrepreneur surprised him by stating.  
  
"Me, Sara's friend," Nottingham said thoughtfully, sipping his rapidly cooling tea. "That is a novel concept. Her Protector and her friend."  
  
"Wait a sec, you're the Wielder's Protector?"  
  
Ian's tired eyes met Gabriel Bowman's. "Yes. As you are obviously aware, one such as me has been a part of the Wielder's life throughout the Witchblade's long history. Born to defend the Wielder from her enemies, the endless legion of which would destroy her just for the chance to possess the power that the gauntlet bestows."  
  
"Holy shit! And Irons has got you by the balls!" the younger man observed baldly. "That's . . . that's just perverse, man. I called him a black-hearted bastard before, but that seals it for me: The man's evil."  
  
Ian just stared at him listlessly, unable to summon the energy to refute his words, even if there had been a way to do so.  
  
"May I please have another cup of peppermint tea?" he finally asked wearily, his head once again falling against the back of the sofa.  
  
"Sure thing," his host said rising and taking Ian's mug from him. "Just relax, Mr. Nottingham, and make yourself comfortable. Maybe you want to take your coat off?"  
  
"Not yet, thank you," Ian murmured, slightly alarmed to feel his eyelids growing heavy. "I am just beginning to feel warm again."  
  
Gabriel Bowman handed him a fresh mug of tea a few minutes later, but he only managed to consume little more than half of it before nodding off.  
  
****  
  
The buzz of the apartment's intercom jerked Ian back to wakefulness. Disoriented, he flung off a quilt he did not remember being covered with and staggered to his feet.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, sorry to disturb you there, Mr. Nottingham!" Gabriel Bowman said from the display room where he'd been quietly unpacking two large crates. "It's just a client I've been expecting."  
  
"What time is it? Did I miss Lady Sara's call?" Ian asked, yawning and rubbing his face before slowly sinking back down onto the irresistibly comfy sofa again. Sleepily, he snuggled into the warmth of the quilt that his host must have placed over him while he slept.  
  
"Almost 1:00 p.m. and, no, she hasn't called yet." The younger man glanced at the view of the building's entrance that was displayed on a small, wall-mounted monitor before pushing the intercom button that would let his visitor hear his voice. "Yo."  
  
"Hello, Mr. Bowman? My name is Veronica Matthews. We spoke a couple of days ago about an Etruscan necklace you said you'd managed to acquire. We have a one o'clock appointment, I believe."  
  
"Yes, I've been expecting you, Ms. Matthews. Take the freight elevator at the end of the hall to the third floor. Second apartment on the left." He buzzed her in.  
  
Veronica Matthews turned out to be a young, attractive African- American woman.  
  
"Welcome to Talismaniac, Ms. Matthews. I'm the owner, Gabriel Bowman," the young entrepreneur greeted her warmly. "Can I offer you something to drink? A cup of tea, perhaps?"  
  
"Call me Ronnie, and, sure, I'd love one. It's freezing outside," she told him, shrugging out of her full-length down coat, which Gabriel took from her and hung up in a closet. "Oh! I didn't realize you had company," the young woman said, noticing Ian for the first time.  
  
"Uh, yeah, that's my . . . cousin, Ian," their host said smoothly. "He's a little under the weather, so he's playing hooky from work and hanging out with me today."  
  
"Hi, Ian, my name's Ronnie," the dark-skinned woman said, taking a seat on the settee across from him. "I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well."  
  
"Hello, Ronnie," Ian said shyly, self-conscious about the hoarseness of his voice. "Gabriel tells me you're interested in the Etruscan period of pre-Roman Italian history."  
  
"Oh, yes. I minored in archaeology as an undergrad, and it was a favorite of mine. Now I work part-time as a curator in a museum in Minnesota, and I wanted to see if I could acquire this necklace for a permanent Etruscan exhibit the head curator and I are putting together," she told him.  
  
For the next half an hour, Gabriel Bowman listened with growing admiration and surprise as Ian Nottingham conversed quite knowledgeably about ancient Etruscan society and culture with his client. All Gabe had to do was keep the tea coming and bring out the stunning example of that era's jewelry he had procured for his prospective customer. Less than 45 minutes later, he closed the sale. He got the feeling the discussion would have continued except for the fact that Ian's already hoarse voice finally gave out completely.  
  
There was only one awkward moment, when Ronnie innocently started to reach into the little silver ice bucket on the coffee table for an ice cube to put in her piping hot peppermint tea. Both men startled the young woman by simultaneously lunging for the bucket. Gabriel beat Ian to it, mumbling that the ice cubes had melted and that he would fetch fresh ones from the kitchen. She chose not to remark upon the fact that he brought them out in a bowl rather than the lovely antique bucket.  
  
"Ian, if you're ever in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, drop by the museum. It's pretty small, but I think this exhibit will be worth a visit, especially with this addition," Ronnie Matthews said, rising from the settee with obvious reluctance.  
  
"I would enjoy that. My work does not often allow me the liberty to visit museums, but I will be certain to make the time should I ever find myself in Minnesota," Ian whispered sincerely. He pocketed the business card the attractive young woman had given him, failing to notice that she had scribbled her home phone number on the back.  
  
"Thanks, Ronnie," Gabriel said, helping her on with her coat and then escorting her to the door. "Maybe I'll drop by the museum one of these days, too, to see what you've done with my necklace. Please, come again, and don't hesitate to tell all of your friends about Talismaniac."  
  
"I certainly will, Gabriel. It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Ronnie said. Then she grinned impishly and glanced meaningfully beyond him to the parlor. "In more ways than one! Bye, Ian!"  
  
"Good-bye, Ronnie Matthews. Have a safe trip home," Ian rasped.  
  
Gabriel turned from closing the door and waggled a finger at Ian. "You sly dog, you! I never would have guessed that you have a way with the ladies!"  
  
"There is much about me you do not know, Mr. Bowman, but in this particular case, I think the fever may have eased my inhibitions somewhat," Ian responded.  
  
Talismaniac's proprietor frowned. "You're running a fever?"  
  
"I believe so. I am also fairly certain that it is what will eventually kill me unless I receive the antidote to the toxin," he whispered in his ravaged voice.  
  
"Hang on a sec," Gabriel said, disappearing down the hallway that led to the bathroom and his private quarters. He came back moments later with a digital thermometer, which he disinfected with isopropyl rubbing alcohol before handing it to Ian. "Press the button, wait five seconds, and then pop it under your tongue. It'll beep when it's ready to be read. Fast, double-beeps mean you've got a fever."  
  
Ian followed his instructions, and about two minutes later, the thing beeped: fast double-beeps.  
  
"Uh-oh," Gabriel Bowman said, grabbing the thermometer out of Ian's mouth before he could and peering at the tiny LED readout. "You were right; 101.4. I don't suppose aspirin would do any good?"  
  
"No."  
  
A somber silence descended over the room, only to be broken minutes later by the ringing of the cordless phone that sat on a countertop in the display room.  
  
"That is probably Lady Sara," Ian said. "Mr. Bowman, please do not tell her what you learned about the toxin," he requested urgently.  
  
"Okay," Gabriel reluctantly agreed, "but she really should know that you're, uh, under a deadline, so to speak." He picked up the phone. "Talismaniac. Oh, hey Chief, I was just wondering when you'd call."  
  
Sara must have asked how Ian was doing, because the next thing Gabriel said was "Not hurling anymore. Peppermint tea worked like a charm. Still coughing and sneezing, though. Oh, and he's pretty much lost his voice. Do you want to speak to -- ! Hey, hey, Invasion-of-Personal-Space Alert, Dude!" the younger, much shorter man said, startled to turn and find Ian inches away from him. He had failed to notice Nottingham rise from the sofa and cross the room.  
  
Ian took the phone from him. "Hello, Sara," he whispered.  
  
"How you feeling, Nottingham? Better than you sound, I hope," his Lady asked him gently.  
  
"Warmer," Ian answered truthfully. "And my stomach has stopped hurting me."  
  
"That's good news at least." She lowered her voice. "No word yet on exactly when and where this bust is gonna go down tonight. And things are still weirdly quiet around here. Dante hasn't seen fit to cut me loose from desk duty, either. So, looks like I'll see you at 5:10 like I promised. Take it easy 'til then, okay? And try and get some more rest."  
  
"I will try, my Lady."  
  
"Good. Now, put Gabe back on please."  
  
He handed the phone back to a fidgety Gabriel Bowman, who had moved several feet away from him, then headed down the hallway to the bathroom. But his sharp hearing picked up the younger man's half of the ensuing conversation even from behind the closed door.  
  
"He slept for about an hour, but then a client stopped by and woke him up."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Shocking as I know this is gonna sound, I actually think he kind of charmed her. He's very well-read, at least about ancient Etruscan civilization. They had tea and discussed the subject like a couple of college professors or something. I should probably pay him a commission 'cause I'm pretty sure he helped seal the deal."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Young, attractive, smart. And, of course, female. No accounting for taste, hunh?"  
  
Pause.  
  
"She was definitely into the Nottingham vibe. Who knew he could act normal? I sure as hell didn't. He blamed it on the fever, which is probably as close to making a joke as the guy ever comes."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Didn't I mention that he's running a fever? Guess I forgot."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Yeah, well, he probably didn't want to worry you."  
  
Gabriel Bowman abruptly lowered his voice considerably, but not enough to prevent Ian from hearing him clearly. "Listen, Chief, Mr. Professional Killer becomes delirious in the next few hours, I'm out of here."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Well, no, it's not that high yet, but I'm just saying. My very well- developed sense of self-preservation is telling me that it might not be wise to stick around when the world's deadliest assassin is out of his head with fever. I'm positive he's armed to the teeth and then there's the fact that he could kill me with whatever's handy, like, oh, I don't know, his bare hands."  
  
Longer pause.  
  
"Well, yeah, sure, but that's because you're the Almighty Wielder and he's your Protector. Delirium hallucination Irons orders him to kill me, and I'm toast. End of story."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. See you in a few hours, Chief."  
  
Ian flushed the toilet, washed his hands, put his gloves and ring back on, and returned to the parlor, taking a seat on the sinfully comfortable couch again.  
  
Gabriel had resumed unpacking the crates. He glanced over at Ian. "Do you think you could eat something? Maybe a bowl of chicken soup?"  
  
"I do not think that would be wise, but thank you for the offer," he refused. He gazed thoughtfully at the slender, dark-haired young man, although he clearly sensed that his silent scrutiny was making him uncomfortable.  
  
"Mr. Bowman," he said after several minutes, causing the other man to jump. "You were right in supposing that my master poisoned me because of my divided loyalties. He thinks this will remind me of my place and exactly to whom I owe my allegiance. Yes, I am the Wielder's Protector, but I am also my master's instrument. It is extremely difficult for me to disobey him when he orders me to do something. Nearly impossible, in fact. However, I promise you that I would find a way to defy him if he ever ordered me to harm you," he told the nervous man.  
  
"Why?" Gabriel Bowman asked instantly. "Because I gave you shelter?"  
  
"No, because I know that should anything happen to you, it would hurt my Lady," he answered honestly.  
  
"Deal," the younger man said swiftly. "Shake on it?" He crossed the room and held out his hand, his dark eyes serious.  
  
Slowly and deliberately, Ian first removed the heavy silver ring he always wore on his right ring finger over his glove, and then the black glove itself, before grasping the young entrepreneur's hand and shaking it firmly.  
  
"Now, how do you feel about being on call? You know, to help out with sales to the ladies?" Gabriel asked him. "There'd be a hefty commission in it for you."  
  
  
  
More to come. Keep the feedback coming. 


	16. Chapter 17

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 17.  
  
  
  
Sara Pezzini took the stairs to the second floor of the 11th Precinct two at a time. The warmth of the stationhouse was a welcome relief from the frigid temperatures outside. She had nearly become frozen just on the brief walk back from the Greek diner, her too-thin leather jacket little protection against the wind-chill-exacerbated cold. Tomorrow, she would be sure to wear her down jacket and a scarf.  
  
A quick trip to the diner's ladies room had allowed her to clean off her boots and jeans as best she could with just hand soap and paper towels. Although she felt bad about the unpleasant surprise she had just sprung on Gabriel Bowman, her conscience was clear now that she knew her sickly, inadequately dressed stalker was someplace warm, albeit as the guest of a highly reluctant host. Exactly why the fact that Kenneth Irons' bodyguard and henchman would probably avoid catching pneumonia should set her mind at ease was something Sara didn't want to examine too closely at the moment. It was enough that she no longer had to think about Nottingham standing outside in that freezing alley all day. Now, all she had to worry about was whether Gabriel would survive the next five or six hours in one piece.  
  
As she passed Captain Bruno Dante's office, she saw that Jake McCartey and Orlinsky were in there behind closed doors.  
  
"Long line again?" Danny Woo asked mildly as she plopped a cup of coffee on his desk before taking off her jacket and hat.  
  
"Um, no. I took a little detour. On the spur of the moment, I decided to drop by Gabriel Bowman's place for a bit. It's only a few blocks from here and I haven't seen him for a while," she told her partner, deciding she owed him at least part of the truth.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Him. How's he doing?"  
  
"Good, good."  
  
Sara knew Danny didn't quite know what to think about her burgeoning friendship with the youthful owner of Talismaniac. Although he was aware that she sometimes consulted with the younger man on some of the weird symbols that had lately begun to turn up at their crime scenes, she sensed that the swiftness with which she'd befriended Gabriel surprised her longtime partner and friend. He, maybe more than anyone else, realized that she didn't make friends easily.  
  
With an effort, Sara managed to refrain from asking Danny whether he'd heard anything about that night's planned drug bust while she'd been gone, knowing that he would have mentioned any developments as soon as she walked in. She glanced toward Dante's office.  
  
"They've been in there for about ten minutes," her partner said, noticing the direction of her gaze. "Vicky finally released her findings on the kids' clothing and the gun. She stopped by to give you a heads up, but you were out."  
  
"She tell you what she found?" Sara asked.  
  
"Nope. She said to give her a call when you got back. As far as tonight's operation goes, I think Dante might be putting Jake and Orlinsky in the loop."  
  
"Do you really think narcotics and the DEA might actually let them take part in it?"  
  
Danny shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. If Medina makes the pickup and they grab him up, the undercover guy will immediately finger him for the Gutierrez shooting and that's their case, so, yeah, they might get an invite to tag along."  
  
"That's gotta be a first for the rookie," Sara commented, wishing it were she who was going in his stead. She picked up her phone and called Vicky Po.  
  
"Hey, girlfriend," the ME said by way of greeting. "Dante was breathing down my neck for the results on the gun and the clothing, and I couldn't stall him or Jake and Orlinsky any longer. I tried to give you a heads up, but Danny said you'd stepped out."  
  
"That's okay. I was out on a coffee run and then decided to look in on my friend Gabriel, who lives just up the block. What did you find on the clothes?" Sara inquired, although she already knew what her friend was going to tell her because of what the Witchblade's vision had shown her.  
  
"Amanda was definitely the shooter. Joey only had traces of gunpowder residue on his left sleeve, which means he was standing to her right when she fired," Vicky told her. "I take it Jake and Orlinsky already discussed my findings with Dante."  
  
"They're in there right now, but from the look of things, the meeting is winding down. Thanks for everything, Vic. I owe you big time."  
  
"Any time, girlfriend. See you later." She hung up.  
  
Briefly, Sara relayed to her partner what the ME had told her.  
  
Five minutes later, the meeting across the hall broke up, and Jake and Orlinsky left their captain's office. Dante shot a smirk Sara's way before deliberately closing the blinds in his office. Instinctively, she knew he was up to no good where she was concerned.  
  
"God, Danny, what if Medina gets spooked between now and that freighter's arrival? If he sniffs out that undercover detective, he's toast," Sara said suddenly, a wave of panic seizing her. "Then who'll testify that Angel offed Paco? Joey could be brought up on accessory to murder charges."  
  
"That's not gonna happen, Pez, so don't even think about it," her partner said firmly.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I just feel like if I don't do something, anything, soon, I'm gonna jump out of my skin!" Sara groaned.  
  
On her wrist, the Witchblade amplified that feeling, sending tiny jolts of adrenaline coursing through its Wielder's body. It, too, was eager for action, preferably on a massive, bloody scale. This realization disturbed Sara, but not as much as she thought it should. She had to constantly remind herself that the innocent-looking bracelet she wore was famous for magnifying its Wielder's bloodlust during battle, when it instantaneously transformed into various weaponry, each of which was capable of inflicting enormous damage to the human body. So far, Sara had willed it to become a light, streamlined glove, which, despite its delicate, filigreed appearance, packed quite a punch; an armored gauntlet, complete with vicious-looking metal spikes, that when used to put an assailant down tended to make certain he or she stayed down -- permanently; a short sword, more of a stiletto actually, perfect for stabbing torsos and slicing throats with; a gauntlet with a chain, on the end of which was a wicked mace that, with one powerful swing, could bash skulls in with astonishing ease; and a long, frighteningly sharp, double-edged broadsword, her personal favorite and the one that she was most comfortable wielding.  
  
More than once, she had been tempted to take Kenneth Irons' up on his repeated offers to help her better learn how to wield the various weaponry. On the one occasion she had faced another swordsman in battle, she had felt at a distinct disadvantage owing to her inexperience. Only her Witchblade-aided reflexes and quickness had enabled her to triumph (okay, her opponent had been Nottingham, and she strongly suspected he had allowed her to win). With the proper training, she knew she could become pretty much invincible. However, Sara was loathe to put herself in the position of being beholden to the ruthless billionaire, even if it meant becoming a better fighter, thereby considerably increasing her odds of survival in future battles. She just didn't trust him. But, for some reason, her instinctive distrust of the master no longer appeared to extend to his servant, at least not completely. Her blithe dismissal of Gabriel's legitimate objection to the fact that Irons' pet assassin had once threatened his life was grounded in her intuitive belief that Nottingham was a man of honor, strange as that concept might seem when applied to someone who killed people for a living.  
  
Nevertheless, Sara had gradually come to realize that Nottingham's courtly manner and diffident demeanor when in her presence were not affectations. As he had told her on numerous occasions, he considered himself her guardian. Actually, "Protector" was the term he had used more than once, and from the way he said it, she got the strong impression that it was a role he took very, very seriously. She made a mental note to ask Gabriel the next time she saw him if he had ever come across anything in Witchblade lore that explained the significance of this title.  
  
As if it were aware of her thoughts -- and Sara did not for a minute doubt that it was -- the Witchblade stroked her wrist with warmth and swirled gently, exactly the way it always did whenever Nottingham was nearby. She actually glanced around, expecting to see him, before she remembered where he was and why.  
  
Shaking her head at this moment of lunacy, Sara picked up a folder from her inbox, but before she could open it, Jake entered her and Danny's office.  
  
"Hey, Pez, Woo," he said by way of greeting, sitting down in Sara's guest chair.  
  
"Have a seat, why don'tcha, Rookie?" Sara invited sardonically.  
  
"Hey, Jake, what's shakin'?" Danny said, taking a folder from atop the pile in his inbox.  
  
"Same old, same old," the blond man murmured. "Pez, do you maybe want to grab some lunch with me and Vicky in about an hour?" he asked her, flicking a brief but significant glance toward their captain's office.  
  
"Sure, I'd love to," she said. "Where we going?"  
  
"Just down the street to the diner. That okay?"  
  
"That's fine by me."  
  
"Don't mind me, guys," Danny said, reaching into his desk drawer and taking out a paper bag. "I'm brown bagging it today." He sniffed it. "Mmm, egg salad sandwich. Nice and ripe."  
  
"Okay, we won't mind you, but something tells me that after you eat that thing, it'll be really hard to ignore you" Sara snarked, grinning.  
  
"So, so cold, partner," Danny pouted, "but, sadly, so, so true."  
  
"You're welcome to join us, Danny," Jake said, smiling.  
  
The Asian man promptly threw the oil-stained bag in the garbage. "Thank God. But don't breathe a word of this to Lee."  
  
"Maybe if you, um, actually bothered to refrigerate the sandwiches your wife goes to the trouble of making, they would be edible come lunchtime," Sara suggested.  
  
"Have you seen the refrigerator in the break room lately, Pez? I swear there's stuff in there from when they bought the damn thing, which was, what, five years ago?" Danny said. "Plus, Orlinsky is famous for pinching anything that isn't booby-trapped! He seems to have some kind of weird sixth sense that alerts him whenever anybody puts anything even remotely edible in there."  
  
The three of them enjoyed a good chuckle about this well-known fact. "Point taken, partner," Sara said. "We'll meet you and Vic out front in an hour, Jake, all right?"  
  
"Sure thing, Pez. Later," said the young, blond detective, rising from his seat and leaving.  
  
Both Sara and Danny studiously attacked paperwork until it was time for them to go meet Vicky Po and Jake McCartey.  
  
"Brrrr. Remind me again why you left Southern California for the Northeast, Jake?" Vicky Po said, when Sara and Danny joined her and Jake out in front of the stationhouse at the appointed time.  
  
"Why to experience the changing of the seasons, of course!" Jake grinned, throwing an arm around the petite, dark-haired ME's wool-clad shoulders. "Sunny skies and temps in the 80s day in and day out can get real old after a while."  
  
The three native New Yorkers groaned at this.  
  
'They make a cute couple,' Sara thought, smiling to see color bloom on her friend's pale cheeks at the physical contact from the handsome Californian.  
  
"They're talking 30 inches of snow by the time everything's said and done, starting late tomorrow night, early Friday morning," Danny said, casting an anxious eye at the now completely overcast sky.  
  
"Where do you store your motorcycle come winter, Pez?" Jake asked as they passed the Buell's parking space.  
  
"Ugh! Don't remind me! I so hate mass transit!" Sara groaned, shoving her hands in her pockets in a vain effort to warm them. Her thin riding gloves were little protection against the cold, just like her jacket.  
  
"You leave it in Joe and Marie Siri's garage, right?" Vicky said.  
  
"Yeah. I guess I'm gonna have to head over there after work tomorrow," Sara sighed.  
  
"So, I heard you filed your findings on the kids' clothing and the gun, Vic," Danny said. "How'd Dante react when you told him what she found, Jake?"  
  
"I'm surprised he didn't order Joey to be dragged back in here and booked on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, just to spite me and Joe Sr.," Sara said bitterly, then noticed the uncomfortable look on Jake's face. "Please tell me he didn't order you and Orlinksy to do that, Jake."  
  
"Um, no, but, and he'd have my ass if he found out I told you this, Dante wants the kid brought up on gun possession charges," Jake reluctantly admitted.  
  
"WHAT?" Sara yelled, incredulously. "That vindictive, small-minded, conniving bastard! He can't do that, can he? I mean, Joey brought me that gun first thing the next morning. It wasn't even in his possession for very long. He hid it in an alley next to a freakin' police precinct, for Christ's sake!"  
  
Jake shook his head apologetically. "His prints were on it and he admitted in his statement that he kept it after he disarmed the drug dealer, plus the weapon was used to commit a crime. Unfortunately, under the letter of the law, it's enough to charge him with possession of an illegal firearm. I'm sorry, Sara."  
  
"It's not your fault, Jake. Besides, Joey's lawyer will get those charges bounced so fast, Dante's head will spin," Sara pointed out, but then realization dawned on her. "But he doesn't care about that, all he cares about is embarrassing Joe Sr. And me, of course. That son of a bitch! He probably can't wait to rub my face in this. Thanks for the heads up, Jake. I gotta call Robbie and Paula and let them know what to expect. Excuse me for a minute, guys," Sara said taking out her cell phone.  
  
"We'll go grab a table," Vicky said, as they reached the diner. She hooked her arms through Jake's and Danny's and frog-marched them inside. The blast of warmth that escaped through the door beckoned Sara, but she didn't want to chance being overheard by anyone. Because of its proximity to the 11th Precinct, the eatery was a favorite of the station's personnel. So, she paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the place, her breath frosting in the air as she spoke to her surrogate older brother, whom she reached at work.  
  
Minutes later, she plopped down into a booth next to Danny and opposite Jake and Vicky, grimacing. "They're upset, but then who wouldn't be? Joey's an A student and great kid who's never been in trouble before in his life. This whole mess has got his parents and grandparents reeling. I just hope we catch Angel Medina soon so Joey and Amanda won't have to keep looking over their shoulders," Sara said, hoping this comment would prompt the rookie to share what he knew about the impending drug bust.  
  
Cooperatively, Jake said "Well, as it so happens -- and, again, Dante would go nuts if he knew I leaked this -- narcotics and the DEA are planning on busting Medina. Tonight, as a matter of fact. Apparently, they have a guy inside who thinks Angel is getting ready to pick up some major weight. Although they still haven't been able to get an exact fix on the location or the time, word is that the product is arriving by water right before midnight."  
  
"Wow, that's a relief!" Sara said, hiding her disappointment that she hadn't learned anything new. "This means Joey's troubles could all be over if everything goes according to plan. Thanks for sharing, Jake."  
  
"I think we'll all feel relieved when Sara stops losing sleep over this!" Danny cracked.  
  
"A bit cranky in the morning these days, is she?" Vicky inquired, hiding a smile behind her hand.  
  
"You mean crankier than her usual I-Haven't-Had-My-Fourth-Cup-of-Java- Yet-So-Don't-Start-With-Me 'tude? Yeah, a bit," Danny smirked. Both Jake and Vicky could not refrain from sniggering at this.  
  
"Ha, ha. Go on, laugh at the exhausted-from-worry aunt. See if I care," Sara pouted, but her twinkling eyes gave her away.  
  
Despite the bad news about Joey courtesy of Jake, the friends passed an enjoyable hour eating and ragging on each other mercilessly. After divvying up the check, they hurried back to the warmth of the stationhouse and went their separate ways.  
  
"I'm gonna hit the can. Be back in a few minutes," Danny said, hanging up his coat.  
  
"Thanks for sharing, guy" Sara said, rolling her eyes. As soon as her partner left the room, the Witchblade imparted its familiar swirly warmth thing to her wrist, and Sara remembered her promise to call and see how her stalker was doing. She picked up her phone and dialed Gabriel Bowman.  
  
He answered on the fourth ring.  
  
"Hey, kid. How's it going over there?" she asked her friend. She was relieved to hear that his voice didn't sound stressed -- or like the life was being strangled out of him.  
  
Gabriel told her that, thanks to the amazing healing powers of peppermint tea, Nottingham had stopped vomiting but that he was still sneezing and coughing and now had a bad case of laryngitis. Gabriel started to ask her if she wanted to talk to her stalker, but then she heard him say, voice rising with alarm "Hey, hey, Invasion-of-Personal-Space Alert, Dude!"  
  
A ragged whisper of a voice came on the line. "Hello, Sara." Only his distinctive way of pronouncing her name identified the speaker as Nottingham.  
  
Feeling a quiver of compassion in her stomach, Sara gently asked him how he was feeling, expressing the sincere hope that it was better than he sounded.  
  
He told her that he was warmer and that his stomach had stopped hurting him, and she responded that that was good news at least. Glancing toward her captain's office, Sara lowered her voice until she was practically whispering herself, informing Nottingham about the lack of developments in the planned drug bust, that it had remained strangely quiet in the homicide division, and that Dante hadn't yet seen fit to release her from desk duty. She reiterated her promise to be at Gabriel's at 5:10 p.m., telling the sick man to take it easy until then and to try and get some more rest. He said he would try, and then Sara requested that he put his host back on.  
  
Unfortunately, at that moment, Danny walked back into the room. Putting her hand over the mouthpiece, she observed "That was fast!"  
  
"Yes, I'm a regular speed pooper. Pun intended. Must be all the fiber in my diet," Danny grinned.  
  
Sara pulled a face at his candidness. "I'm talking to Gabriel. His, uh, cousin is visiting him, and he's got a bad case of the flu, so I'm just checking in to see how things are. I'll try to be brief."  
  
"Don't mind me," Danny said, sitting down. He appeared to become engrossed in his paperwork, but Sara was all too aware that he was avidly listening to her side of the conversation.  
  
"So, Gabriel, did he get any rest?"  
  
Pause.  
  
"A client, hunh?" Sara winced. "Gee, I'm sorry about that, Gabe. I hope he didn't cost you a sale, what with the all the coughing, sneezing, and extreme weirdness." When she had imposed on Gabriel's hospitality, Sara hadn't given a thought about what Nottingham's presence at Talismaniac might mean in terms of her friend's clients.  
  
Longer pause.  
  
"Her?"  
  
Pause.  
  
"Well, to each her own, I guess. He actually carried on a normal conversation, hunh? I didn't think Mr. Cryptic was capable of that. And then there's that no-eye-contact thing he does. Your client probably just thought he was shy." Suddenly, Sara remembered Joey Siri, Jr. describing Nottingham as just that.  
  
Pause.  
  
"Wait a minute, he's feverish?"  
  
Pause.  
  
"Yeah, well, he didn't mention it to me either."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Is his fever already so high you really have to worry about that? Sara asked, alarmed.  
  
Longer pause.  
  
"Oh, come on, Gabriel, don't be such a wuss! Aside from that little incident a couple of months ago, he's never shown the slightest interest in harming you, even though he obviously realizes that you're still doing, um, research for me from time to time. Besides, I've felt many things ever since I discovered that he's shadowing me, but I've never felt threatened by him. In fact, he's helped me out on more than one occasion in his own maddeningly cryptic way."  
  
Pause.  
  
"I still think you're worrying about nothing," Sara told her friend, not missing the fact that he'd used the term 'Protector.' She started to ask him about it, but then remembered that she had an audience. "Give him a couple of aspirins, and the fever should come down. In fact, I bet it'll be lower by the time I get there."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Bye, Gabriel." She hung up.  
  
Danny's gaze met hers speculatively. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but overhear. Is Gabriel's cousin stalking you, Pez?" he asked her.  
  
"Uh, not exactly. It's kind of complicated," Sara said evasively, belatedly wishing she had stepped outside for this phone call.  
  
"Stalking is no joking matter, partner," Danny said seriously.  
  
"I know, Danny, and I appreciate your concern, but I'm a big girl and I can handle this."  
  
Thankfully, he let the subject drop after that, but she could tell he was disturbed by what he'd overheard.  
  
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Too uneventfully.  
  
As five o'clock approached, Sara wondered if the narcotics squad and the DEA had decided to call off the drug bust. There was no word from Mike Morgan on the details, and no more powwows between Dante, Jake, and Orlinsky.  
  
Then at five minutes to five, Danny's phone rang.  
  
"Detective Woo," he said. "Oh, hey, Mike!" He listened for a moment, and then gestured for Sara to close the door, which she swiftly did. "I'm putting you on speakerphone, Mike. I've turned the volume down really low and the door to our office is closed." He pressed a button on the phone.  
  
"Hey, Mike, glad to hear from you," Sara greeted the narcotics squad detective and Danny's friend.  
  
"Hey, Pez. I'll be brief because I only have a few minutes: the operation is taking place on the docks tonight. The name of the freighter that's allegedly carrying the drugs is the Dominican Star, and she's due to dock at Berth 11, Pier 62, at 11:00 tonight. We'll have our people in place, just waiting for Angel and Joaquin Medina to show up. Once they take possession of the product, we'll move in. As a courtesy, I'm pretty sure my sergeant intends to invite the lead detectives working the Gutierrez murder case to tag along."  
  
"Thanks for passing this info along, Mike," Sara said. "For a while there I didn't think this thing was gonna happen."  
  
Danny jerked his chin toward Dante's office, and Sara glanced over to see Jake and Orlinsky entering it.  
  
"Looks like you were right about the leads riding along, Mike. They're in with Dante getting the details right now," Danny told his friend.  
  
"I gotta go, guys. Hopefully, everything will go as planned, and we can put the scumbag Medina brothers away for the rest of their natural lives."  
  
"You take care tonight, Detective," Sara cautioned him, "and good luck!"  
  
"Yeah, Mike, keep your head down. We'll touch base with you tomorrow morning to find out how things went, okay?" Danny said.  
  
"Sure thing." He hung up.  
  
"Whew! What a relief!" Sara said, standing and grabbing her coat and helmet. "I honestly thought they'd decided to call the whole thing off."  
  
Danny studied her, dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
  
"Pez, by any chance, are you planning on doing something foolish like, for instance, going down to the docks tonight?"  
  
She gave her partner her most innocent look. "What, do you think I'm stupid, Danny? I wouldn't dream of doing anything that might jeopardize this operation. Joey's future might very well depend on its success."  
  
"Uh-hunh. Just make sure you stay out of sight, Pez. From what Mike told us, this Medina guy is easily spooked. And I don't even want to think about what Dante might do if he found out you went there on your own."  
  
"I'll be freakin' invisible, partner. See you in the morning, hopefully well rested!" she grinned, and jogged out of the precinct.  
  
Outside, the temperature seemed to have risen slightly, which didn't make Sara happy as she knew that this was not uncommon before a major snow event. She decided to leave her bike in its parking space in front of the precinct while she revisited Gabriel's place. She pushed his buzzer at 5:10 on the dot.  
  
"Come on up, Chief," Gabriel answered, buzzing her in.  
  
Once again, the door to Talismaniac was ajar when she reached the third floor. But this time no music blared from within. She entered the dimly lit apartment with some trepidation.  
  
"He's still sleeping. Didn't even stir at the buzzer," Gabriel whispered, greeting her at the door and indicating the motionless, quilt- enshrouded figure on the large sofa. "Sara, his fever is still rising."  
  
"Did you give him any cold or flu medicine?" she asked her friend, staring worriedly at the sleeping man.  
  
"No. He refused to take anything. Said it wouldn't help."  
  
"Why would he say that? He's got the flu, right?"  
  
Gabriel didn't say anything, just stared at her.  
  
The Witchblade suddenly came alive, the bracelet's stone a bright, pulsing red, and Sara abruptly recalled Nottingham's words from earlier that morning.  
  
"You know, now that I think about it, when I suggested he take some cold medicine earlier this morning, he insisted that what he had wasn't a cold. Later, when I asked him how long he'd been feeling sick, he denied that he was sick. He said something like 'It's a test,'" she murmured. "Do you know what he meant by that, Gabriel?"  
  
"I do, but he asked me not to tell you what I figured out," her friend said quietly.  
  
"Okay, let's play a little guessing game, shall we?" Sara said, raising her eyebrows. "But if I guess right, you have to say so."  
  
"Deal," Gabriel agreed instantly.  
  
"Let's see: what could sicken a big, strong guy like Nottingham so quickly? I mean, he seemed perfectly fine yesterday. A little more subdued than usual -- for him -- but not even a hint of sniffles or anything," she said slowly and thoughtfully, unconsciously stroking the Witchblade's pulsating stone, as if seeking to calm it. "Vorschlag Industries is in the genetics business, so maybe it's an engineered virus of some type?" she hazarded.  
  
Gabriel remained silent.  
  
"No, hunh? Okay, something fast-acting but not completely disabling. Something that starts out innocently enough, mimicking the symptoms of a bad cold or flu. Like some kind of poison. Could Nottingham have been poisoned?" Sara theorized.  
  
"I knew you'd figure it out, Chief," Gabriel sighed with relief. "Yeah, apparently his evil boss man decided that Nottingham needed to be reminded just who butters his bread. He injected the poor guy with some kind of toxin that is slowly but surely killing him."  
  
"Oh my God!" Sara gasped, appalled. "I mean, I knew the guy was not to be trusted, but you're right, this is just plain evil. Is there an antidote? And how much time does he have?"  
  
Gabriel shrugged. "Nottingham seems to think so, and he's not sure how long he has. From the way his fever is spiking, I'd say no more than a day or two, maybe less. Naturally, Irons is the one holding, or maybe I should say withholding, the antidote. He wants his wayward servant to come crawling back to him, probably to beg for his life."  
  
"He doesn't have to crawl. I'm gonna drive him there tonight. And while I'm there, I'm gonna give that stinking-rich bastard a piece of my mind!" she said angrily.  
  
"Lady Sara."  
  
She turned to see that Nottingham's eyes were open and focused on her. Even in the low light, Sara could see the febrile glitter in them.  
  
"Hey, Nottingham," she said softly, walking toward the sofa. "How you feeling?"  
  
"Lady Sara, if you insist on following your stated course of action you will kill me as surely as the toxin will if I do not receive the antidote," the assassin said, his voice less hoarse than it had been.  
  
"You need that antidote, Nottingham. Now. Tonight. And I mean to make sure that Irons gives it to you."  
  
"He is looking for just such an excuse to deny me it, my Lady. Unless I prove to him that I am strong enough to protect you, in spite of being poisoned, he will let me die. Should you confront him on my behalf, he will see it as a sign of my weakness. A weak servant is a useless servant to my master's way of thinking. If he ever found out that I stayed here just to please you, my life would be forfeit. My orders are to stay close to you, and I cannot deviate from them until he expressly tells me to do otherwise."  
  
"You can barely stand, let alone protect me, Nottingham," Sara said, exasperatedly.  
  
"On the contrary, I am feeling stronger for the warmth and rest you so thoughtfully arranged for me to have," he said, throwing off the quilt and rising gracefully to his feet.  
  
"But Gabriel says your fever is rising," she pointed out, noting that aside from the flags of color along his high cheekbones and his too-bright eyes, he did look better. He hadn't sneezed or coughed since her arrival.  
  
"Yes, it is, but it would have to become much higher to incapacitate me," the black-clad man said dismissively.  
  
"How high is it now?" Sara asked.  
  
"The last time I checked, it was 101.6," Gabriel interjected. "That was a couple of hours ago."  
  
"How high do you think it can go before you can't function?" she asked the tall, dark-haired man.  
  
"Having never had a dangerously high fever before, anything I said would be merely conjecture, my Lady," Nottingham shrugged.  
  
"How high?" Sara insisted.  
  
"I would guess that a temperature of 106 would cause me to become delirious, followed by convulsions, followed shortly thereafter by death," he responded bluntly.  
  
"Most people become delirious when their temps reach the vicinity of 104; fatal convulsions typically occur at 105 or higher. But then, you're not most people, are you?" Gabriel said to the older man.  
  
"No, I am not," Nottingham agreed.  
  
"So, what's your plan? Follow me around until I head home for the night, and then go back to your sick bastard of a boss and hope he pats you on the head and says 'job well done, here's your antidote'?" Sara asked  
  
"Actually, yes, that is precisely what I had planned on doing," her stalker said equably. "I usually wait until you have fallen asleep before returning to the estate."  
  
Sara bit her lip, thinking about her plans to stake out Pier 62, Berth 11, later that night. Somehow, she highly doubted that she could give her shadow the slip by pretending to retire for the night and then sneaking out of her loft. Nottingham had an uncanny ability to locate her wherever she went, no matter how hard she tried to lose him -- and in the beginning, she had tried very, very hard. Lately, he even appeared to be able to anticipate her destination on occasion. They were "connected," he'd told her the other day. And although at the time she had mocked him, Sara's curiosity had been piqued by his choice of words. Just like when he referred to himself as her Protector. Now was neither the time nor the place -- well, actually, since Gabriel was the one she intended to ask about the term's significance, it was the place -- to pursue her quest for information about this title and the psychic connection to her it apparently gave Nottingham. There was no other explanation for the way he always seemed to be close by.  
  
She decided that the direct approach was the best. "The drug bust is scheduled to take place at around midnight at Pier 62, Berth 11. The DEA's source down at the docks claims a Dominican-flagged freighter, the Dominican Star, is carrying the product that Angel Medina and his brother Joaquin are supposed to pick up. The freighter is due in at 11:00 p.m. I plan on being there when the bust goes down," Sara told Nottingham.  
  
"Then that is where I will be," he responded instantly.  
  
"Well, if you're going to be traipsing around outside in the freezing cold tonight, you really should be dressed more warmly. Unfortunately, I doubt any of your winter coats would fit him, Gabriel, but do you at least have a hat and a scarf you could lend him?" Sara asked her friend, eyeing her stalker's thin wool overcoat critically.  
  
"Um, nothing in basic black, I'm afraid, but I could scrounge up something," the young man said. "Chief, are you sure you want to go looking for trouble tonight? You know, the Twitchblade has a bad habit of wreaking havoc when you least expect it," Gabriel cautioned her, opening his coat closet and rummaging through it.  
  
"I'm just gonna observe the goings on from afar," she told him. "I promise."  
  
"Here you go, Mr. Nottingham. It's not standard issue, but it's definitely warm," Gabriel said, passing the tall, black-clad man a cream, blue, and red-colored hand-knit wool hat with tassels on its peaked top and earflaps and a matching scarf.  
  
"Oh, yes, the very latest in Sherpa assassin wear," Sara said, straight-faced.  
  
"Hey, beggars can't be choosers!" Gabriel protested.  
  
"Then it is a good thing I am not a beggar," Nottingham said firmly, handing the items back to Gabriel. "I will purchase something appropriate from the vendor that sells such items near where my vehicle is parked. But thank you anyway, Mr. Bowman."  
  
"Come on, just try on the cap. You could work the look," Gabriel cajoled. "Or not," he said quickly at the dark look the big man shot him from beneath lowered brows.  
  
"Come on, Nottingham, we've imposed on Gabe's hospitality long enough," Sara said, heading toward the door. She was pleased to see that the two men had apparently forged a tentative friendship during their time together. Or maybe Gabriel just enjoyed tempting death.  
  
"Please wait a moment, my Lady," Ian said, turning and walking back into the parlor. He picked something up from the coffee table. "I believe you said I owe you $3,000 for this, Mr. Bowman." Nottingham held the little silver ice bucket in his gloved hand.  
  
"Nah. Let's call it even because of the Etruscan necklace deal," Gabriel waved him off.  
  
Nottingham frowned. "You consider a 12% commission hefty?"  
  
Startled, the younger man stared uncertainly at the assassin for several moments. Then a slow grin crept onto his face. "You had me going there for a minute, Mr. Nottingham."  
  
The suggestion of a smile turned up the corners of the black-clad man's lips. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Bowman. I would consider it an honor to be consulted on the antiquities you procure in the future. It is not often that I feel comfortable enough to act . . . normal around people. I felt that way here today," he said quietly.  
  
"Oh, hey, any time. Hold on a sec, cause that ice bucket comes with a top and tongs!" Gabriel said, reaching behind a counter and extracting them. "It'll sure come in handy should you ever find yourself entertaining people that you really, really hate." He handed the items to Ian along with a plastic bag to carry them in.  
  
"I will keep that in mind. Good-bye, Mr. Bowman."  
  
"Take care of yourself, Nottingham. And I hope you get that antidote soon."  
  
"Bye, and thanks again, Gabriel," Sara said. "I'll call you tomorrow. There's something I want to ask you about."  
  
"Sure thing, Chief. And, please, be careful tonight!" her friend begged her. "I'll be waiting for that call."  
  
  
  
More to come. Feedback anyone? Please? 


	17. Chapter 18

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 18.  
  
Kenneth Irons hung up his phone, a smile of satisfaction curving his sensuous lips. Everything was falling into place. As he had surmised and Ian had concurred, Sara Pezzini was bound and determined to go down to the docks later tonight, if only to observe the drug bust operation that she believed would end her so-called nephew's troubles.  
  
Ian had still sounded ill, although not quite as hoarse as before. Kenneth knew that he was inadequately dressed for his surveillance duties tonight, and this, combined with his flu-like symptoms, would compound his misery. This pleased Irons, who had been peeved earlier that morning when, despite his obvious nausea, Ian had somehow managed to keep his unwanted breakfast down. But Irons had sensed how close to losing that battle the younger man had come.  
  
It had been immediately apparent to Irons that Ian was unwell as soon as he had come to the breakfast table. His complexion had been ghastly and his bloodshot eyes and runny nose had been impossible to ignore. It had amused him to see that young Nottingham had taken pains with his appearance in a vain effort to distract his employer from his ill health. Kenneth had actually briefly toyed with the idea of forbidding Ian to perform his customary surveillance duties of his beloved Wielder just because it had been so obvious he was eager to see her again. But he had refrained from doing so because it did not suit his purpose, which was test his ailing bodyguard's fortitude and survival skills and to teach him an invaluable lesson.  
  
As it was, young Nottingham had figured out that he'd been poisoned faster than Irons had thought he would, probably owing to the fact that he himself had tipped the young man off yesterday, when he'd unwisely asked how Ian was feeling during one of his gratifyingly frequent progress reports. His servant's surprise at this uncharacteristically solicitous query had been apparent, even over the phone line.  
  
But, to his credit, Ian had replied almost instantly "Penitent," provoking a rarity: a genuine expression of mirth from Kenneth. Obviously, Nottingham had thought his master was referring to the lingering effects of the rather severe beating he had dealt him the night before and/or the unnecessary and demoralizing physical he'd forced him to undergo the following morning.  
  
Kenneth's towering fury at young Nottingham's contrite admission that he'd disobeyed his master's orders not once but twice -- in deference to the Wielder's wishes, no less -- had made his hand heavier than usual. In fact, he'd whipped the younger man so strenuously and at such length, he'd been forced to ice his sore shoulder muscles afterward. That Ian had not once so much as flinched during the entire beating had further enraged Irons. He had glimpsed an almost peaceful expression on the bleeding man's face ten minutes into the flogging, which had given him the energy to keep going for another quarter of an hour despite his protesting muscles. When Kenneth had seen the mess he'd made of his wayward servant's back after the whipping, he'd worried for a few minutes that perhaps he'd gone overboard, compromising Ian's ability to function. But although he'd been in obvious agony, Nottingham's remarkable capacity to withstand punishment had enabled him to walk away from the beating, albeit a bit unsteadily.  
  
It had all worked out splendidly in the end, however. Dr. Immo's "discovery" of the wounds on Ian's back during the course of the physical had given him the perfect excuse to administer the toxin without rousing young Nottingham's suspicions.  
  
Now, Ian was aware that his life hung in the balance unless he could prove himself worthy of service in Kenneth's employ beyond the shadow of a doubt. Keeping the Wielder from coming to harm during the next couple of days would go a long way toward restoring Irons' faith in his servant's resolve. Never for one moment did he doubt that Ian would return to him for his salvation -- the antidote -- even if he had to crawl. In fact, preferably if he had to crawl. Nottingham's inbred drive to protect the Witchblade's Wielder would see to that. And he would have learned a harsh lesson: that it was to Kenneth Irons alone that he owed his steadfast loyalty and obedience, not to mention his very existence.  
  
It was no coincidence that the drug bust was set to take place in the same vicinity that a rogue force of combat-trained Former Soviet Union mercenaries was due to arrive within the next few hours. A couple of phone calls were all it had taken to lead the Drug Enforcement Agency and the narcotics squad from Sara Pezzini's precinct to believe that a large drug shipment was being smuggled into the country on a freighter named the Dominican Star, and that the drug lord Angel Medina would show up to claim the drugs. Imagine their surprise when a search of that ship revealed only human contraband in the form of several dozen illegal aliens.  
  
It did not trouble Kenneth Irons in the slightest that this misinformation placed Joseph Siri, Jr.'s life in grave danger from Angel Medina's minions. In fact, it had been he who had placed a call with Bruno Dante, suggesting that Sara Pezzini's captain bring the youth up on gun possession charges, thereby practically ensuring that the Wielder would show up on the docks tonight. It certainly did pay to have a corrupt police captain in your pocket, Kenneth thought, even one as stupid as Bruno Dante.  
  
Meanwhile, with a little luck, the attack force would engage Ian Nottingham, who, of course, would also be down at the docks shadowing the Wielder. Of course, there was always the chance that the DEA and narcotics squad personnel would come to the assassin's aid once the fighting broke out, somewhat leveling the playing field in Ian's favor. Kenneth would only be slightly disappointed if this occurred. If the police and DEA joined forces with Nottingham, the Russians would in all likelihood be decimated, which simply meant that Irons would no longer have to concern himself with the possibility of them turning their attention to him if they had somehow managed to defeat Nottingham. Not that he had even been remotely concerned about this prospect. The estate's security rivaled that of Fort Knox, and even an attack force twice the size of the Russians' would be hard-pressed to breach the walls. However, if for some reason the ambush did not take place tonight on the docks, it would definitely happen sometime tomorrow. The information on Sara Pezzini that Kenneth had provided to Russian President Vladimir Putin's contact among the mercenaries would see to that.  
  
Yes, Kenneth thought with satisfaction, if he survived the coming conflict, young Nottingham would return to him a changed man. And if he didn't survive, well, there was always a new, improved version of him waiting in the wings.  
  
More to come. Thanks for the feedback, everybody. Keep it coming! 


	18. Chapter 19

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
Author's Note: After much angst (okay, not that much), I decided to rewrite both Chapters 19 and 20. I was dissatisfied with the amount of exposition in Chapter 20, so I combined both characters' viewpoints and then split the resulting gigantic chapter into two. Sara and Ian are a team now anyway, right? What God hath joined, let no man put asunder (or something like that)! If you can't be bothered to reread both chappies, that's fine. I'll {sob} understand. For you first-timers, enjoy!  
Chapter 19.  
Sara Pezzini studied the man beside her whenever she thought he wasn't looking, which was pretty much always because Ian Nottingham had the peculiar habit of staring directly at the ground in front of him as he walked. Not once did he raise his eyes during the entire four-block walk back to the 11th Precinct, although she didn't doubt for an instant that he was acutely aware of his surroundings. There was a preternatural alertness about him, even with his bowed head and downcast eyes.  
  
Virtually noiseless, he walked with an athlete's confident swagger, his weight balanced lightly on his combat-boot-shod feet, his black-gloved hands more often than not clasped behind his back. He suited his pace to Sara's brisk walk, although because his stride was so much longer than hers, it was as though he were taking a leisurely stroll. With some amusement, Sara noticed that he always made sure she walked on the inner, more protected part of the sidewalk.  
  
Nottingham seemed to have some kind of built-in radar when it came to objects he needed to avoid, such as the couple that stepped into his path after getting out of a taxi. He didn't even glance up; he simply nimbly sidestepped them, never even breaking stride. Given his downward-facing gaze, Sara wondered how he could have possibly seen them. And weirder still, the couple acted as if they hadn't even noticed the tall, black-clad assassin, although they both glanced at Sara in the manner of people who enjoy people watching.  
  
It was as though Kenneth Irons' bodyguard were invisible. Eerily, he nearly disappeared in the darkness between street lamps and was only a moving shadow beneath the widely spaced pools of light. Sara noted that the gazes of the few people who did notice him didn't linger, almost as though they realized they were better off pretending they hadn't seen him.  
  
Ian Nottingham could sense the Wielder's scrutiny as they walked back to the stationhouse, and he decided that his atypically lighthearted interaction with her friend had intrigued her. Either that or she was wondering just how much of a freak he really was. Ian couldn't summon up the nerve to look at her and attempt to gauge her frame of mind, so he studiously kept his eyes on the pavement in front of him.  
  
Just as they reached the place where her Buell was parked near the precinct, Sara's cell phone rang. Respectfully, Ian moved several yards away, although not far enough to prevent him from overhearing her side of the conversation.  
  
"Pezzini. Go."  
  
"Hey, Sara. It's Joe." She instantly recognized the voice of her surrogate father and godfather, Joe Siri, Sr.  
  
"Joe! How are you?" Sara felt guilty that she hadn't called him since all the trouble with Joey, Jr. had started.  
  
"I'm good, sweetheart. Marie asked me to invite you to dinner tonight. I'm sorry it's such short notice, but I got caught up in my napping duties and forgot to call you until just now. She's pretty PO'd at me, so please say you'll come," Joe said in his warm, gravelly voice.  
  
Sara glanced at Nottingham, who had assumed his habitual parade rest stance several yards from her: feet spread wide, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. "Well, I was gonna come over tomorrow after work to garage the Buell for the winter, but I might as well bite the bullet and do it tonight," she sighed.  
  
"Yeah, the forecast is not exactly great for motorcyclists for the next week or so. Or for any driver, actually. Looks like we're gonna get hit hard," Joe said. "Better stock up on groceries, kid."  
  
"That reminds me: I need to go shopping in a big way. I'm out of practically everything. Oh, well, it'll have to wait until tomorrow night, when everybody and their uncle is gonna have the same idea 'cause of the storm," she half-groaned. "Is 6:30 okay, Joe? I need to stop by my apartment first."  
  
"Yes, that's fine. Robbie, Paula, and the kids will be here, too. See you at 6:30, Sara."  
  
"Wait! Joe?"  
  
"Yes, sweetheart?"  
  
"Um, it is okay, if I, uh, bring somebody?"  
  
"Sure. You know your godmother. There'll be plenty of food. Is it somebody we know?" he asked curiously.  
  
"Um, Joey's met him."  
  
"Oh, ho, 'him,' hunh?"  
  
"He's just a friend, Joe," Sara said firmly. 'If you can call your freaky stalker a friend,' she thought wryly.  
  
"Well, we'll set an extra place for your 'friend,' honey," her former captain chuckled.  
  
"See you in a little while, Joe." Sara hung up.  
  
Ian could hardly believe his ears when he heard the Wielder request permission to bring him along with her, his heart skipping a beat when she referred to him as a friend just before ending the call. After putting away her phone, she regarded him thoughtfully for a long minute, and Ian decided that she was regretting her impulsive decision. He found himself half hoping that she would change her mind and uninvite him.  
  
Sara stared broodingly at the black-clad man standing several feet away, wondering what in the world had possessed her to include him in her dinner plans. Surely, his interaction with Gabriel Bowman's client earlier that day had seriously depleted his ability-to-act-normal reserves.  
  
"I know you heard that, Nottingham," she told him. "I'm sorry. I really should have asked you first if you have a problem with joining me and my family for dinner."  
  
"Your wish is my command, my Lady," he said quietly, glancing up at her through his ridiculously long and thick black lashes.  
  
She had seriously startled Ian, first by telling him that she knew he'd overheard her side of the conversation and then by actually apologizing for not asking him beforehand whether or not he wanted to join her and her family for dinner. He didn't quite know what to make of this kinder, gentler Sara Pezzini. He kept expecting her to suddenly revert back to the hostile, acid-tongued woman he had come to know and love.  
  
"By the way, Joey, Jr. will be there, too. And I hope you have an appetite, 'cause Marie Siri cooks enough to feed an army and she'll be insulted if you don't eat well," Sara said.  
  
"Unfortunately, I seem to have no appetite at all, but if it will please you, I will consume something," he told her, glad to find that his voice was now only slightly hoarse.  
  
"Yes, it would please me," Sara said, and was surprised to find that it was true.  
  
"I will follow you back to your loft, my Lady," Nottingham said, "and from there, to Brooklyn." He resigned himself to eating yet another meal that his body did not want, fervently hoping there wouldn't be a repeat performance of what had happened at Gabriel Bowman's as a consequence.  
  
"And I'll even let you keep me in sight this time," Sara said, smirking. "Not that I could ever shake you anyway."  
  
"Ah, but your style of motorcycle riding has left me shaken on many occasions. It sometimes takes several minutes for my heart to return to my chest from where it routinely becomes lodged in my throat," he replied, totally straight-faced.  
  
Sara couldn't help but grin. "Now you're just flattering me, Nottingham."  
  
He glanced sideways at her, his pulse rate speeding up as he saw her wide smile. "You are a strange woman, Sara Pezzini."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "Um, pot calling the kettle black much?"  
  
"Are you doing this out of pity?" he abruptly inquired, shocked by his own audacity.  
  
"Whoa! Where did that come from?" she asked him, blinking in surprise at the completely unexpected question. His eyes were downcast and a slight frown creased his dark brows.  
  
"I do not want or need your pity, Sara," he said stiffly. "You did not have to invite me to join you and your family for dinner. I can wait in my car until you are finished eating and visiting with them."  
  
Frankly, Ian was somewhat befuddled by the thoroughly surreal quality of the whole situation. As a matter of fact, before today, if someone had told him that one day soon Sara Pezzini was gong to invite him to join her and her surrogate family for dinner, he would have drawn on them, convinced that he was being confronted by a deranged and quite possibly dangerous person.  
  
Because she herself didn't understand her motivation for inviting him, Sara resorted to anger to hide her confusion.  
  
"Get over yourself, Nottingham," she snapped. "I just thought you might be hungry, seeing as you yakked up your only meal of the day all over my boots this morning." He winced at this cruel reminder of his humiliation. "If you don't wanna come, don't. It makes no difference to me," she said, cramming her helmet on her head and straddling the Buell.  
  
"I am sorry my question upset you, my Lady," he said very softly. "It is just that I do not understand why you are being so kind to me. I feel obligated to point out that, until very recently, you have never shown me anything but dislike and distrust."  
  
"Have you ever heard the saying 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,' Nottingham?" Sara asked him.  
  
"Of course." He risked a glance at her and saw that her green eyes were flashing with irritation.  
  
"Well, it's freakin' cold out here, and I have to go home, change my jeans and coat, and then ride all the way out to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, all in less than an hour. So, I'm heading to my loft now and then I'm gonna go join my family for dinner. If you don't think you can handle it, fine. Sit in your car. I'll tell them the truth, which is that you're not feeling well," she shrugged.  
  
"It would be nice to see young Joseph again," Nottingham said slowly. Although he found her glib explanation to be less than satisfactory, he decided that it would not be prudent to press her any further.  
  
Sara rolled her eyes. "So? Are you coming to dinner or not?"  
  
"Yes, I accept your gracious invitation to join you and your family for dinner, my Lady," he said, with a slight bow.  
  
"Okay, then. I'll follow you to where you parked your car. Lead on," she said, shutting her visor. The Buell's engine roared to life.  
  
Sara was amazed at how quickly Nottingham walked without actually seeming to hurry. They had gone only a few blocks when she heard the distinctive chirp of a car alarm being deactivated and saw the lights of a silver, late-model BMW SUV blink. But Nottingham hesitated after opening the driver-side door and tossing the plastic bag containing his ice bucket inside. He closed the door and then jogged across the street to where several vendors had tables set up.  
  
She watched him purchase a couple of items from one of them, an oddly familiar-looking older man with protruding wide-spaced eyes and long, wavy, yellow-grey hair peeking out from under a battered cap. No words appeared to pass between the two men, just money and merchandise, and then Nottingham was crossing to his car, pulling on a black knit watch cap and matching scarf as he went. The old man glanced over to where Sara sat astride the idling Buell, and his penetrating gaze met hers. She blinked in surprise as he inclined his head in what looked suspiciously like a nod of approval before turning away to serve another customer.  
  
So rattled by the sudden turn of events was he, Ian barely remembered his intention of buying a hat and a scarf from one of the vendors across the street from where his car was parked. Strangely, moments after he approached his table, the vendor he chose handed him exactly what he had in mind to purchase. He gave the vaguely familiar man a ten-dollar bill, and the fellow nodded his thanks. Not a word was spoken during the brief transaction.  
  
"Silver?" Sara couldn't resist observing as Nottingham unlocked the car again. "What a surprise."  
  
"Lighter colors are cooler in the summer," he replied, deadpan.  
  
"Ah, yes, and cutting down on gas consumption is obviously very important to Kenny," Sara cracked. "That's why he has, what, a dozen cars?"  
  
"Ten to be precise. Not counting the chauffeured limousines," Nottingham said, opening the driver-side door. "This is his newest acquisition. It was delivered only yesterday. Normally, Mr. Irons considers SUVs vulgar, but in light of the weather forecast, he decided that purchasing another four-wheel drive vehicle would be prudent." He flushed, aware that he was babbling out of nervousness.  
  
"Right. Thanks for that snapshot of the way the other half lives," Sara said snidely. "Let's get going, shall we?"  
  
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the alley next to her building and parked the Buell. She jumped, startled, when Nottingham suddenly materialized next to her. She had neither seen nor heard his approach. His piercing hazel eyes scanned the dark passageway intently. Apparently satisfied that no immediate threat was present, he looked at her expectantly.  
  
"I'll only be a few minutes, but you're welcome to come up and have something to drink," Sara said, then immediately regretted it. Inviting this tall, dark, and extremely dangerous man over to her extended family's home for dinner was one insanely impulsive thing, but inviting him up to her own space was something else entirely. Not that he hadn't been there before on a number of occasions, albeit uninvited. But it was too late to take back the invitation.  
  
Hiding his amazement, Ian swiftly accepted the offer before she could change her mind. "Thank you, my Lady."  
  
"Um, think you can handle coming in through the front door instead of the window for a change?" she asked him, removing her helmet.  
  
"It will be surpassing strange," he agreed. "Almost as strange as not eating your dust for once was."  
  
Sara laughed. "You just made a funny, Nottingham!"  
  
Unfortunately, she noticed Ian's awestruck expression.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I had dreamed of one day making you laugh," he said truthfully. "But I never thought my dream would come true."  
  
"Uh, yeah. Right." The intensity of his glittering gaze did weird things to the pit of Sara's stomach, especially the way it lingered on her mouth. "Following my every move and speaking in riddles practically every time you do decide to talk to me isn't what I'd call a laugh riot," she said, shaking her head at the bizarreness that her dealings with this man always seemed to devolve into. "You sometimes make me very nervous, Nottingham," Sara surprised herself by admitting.  
  
"Only sometimes? That is an improvement," he said, following her as she started up the stairs that led to her loft.  
  
"Now, see, there you had to go and prove that you have a sense of humor, shooting your 'cold, unfeeling killing machine' persona all to hell," she told him, unable to refrain from smiling at his latest quip.  
  
"It seems I cannot help it. I do so love to see your smile, my Lady."  
  
"You should try smiling yourself some time, Nottingham," Sara responded, then thought 'Whoa! Where the hell did that come from?'  
  
"I do not have much to smile about," he replied soberly, effectively destroying the fragile mood of camaraderie with that cogent reminder of his situation as Kenneth Irons' virtual slave.  
  
"No, I guess you don't," Sara murmured, putting her key in her lock and turning it. For just a few moments, she had forgotten exactly who it was she was talking to. Although Sara didn't understand the nature of Nottingham's relationship with the man he referred to as his master, she knew it was far, far more complicated than simply employer and employee. The fact that Kenneth Irons had poisoned his own bodyguard was stark proof of that.  
  
Gently but firmly, the big, black-clad man shouldered her aside so he could enter her dark apartment first. Sara patiently waited outside the door, idly wondering why her hackles hadn't instantly gone up, which is what would have happened had anyone else tried this with her.  
  
"Lady Sara, it is safe for you to come in," her stalker's soft voice called a minute later.  
  
Sara flicked on the lights, only then realizing that Nottingham had done his security sweep in almost total darkness. Mentally, she added the ability to see in low light to her growing list of enhanced attributes the assassin apparently possessed.  
  
He stood in the middle of her living room in his odd parade rest stance. Immediately the tension level in the room escalated, and suddenly her loft seemed a whole lot smaller.  
  
"Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" Sara asked, taking off her leather jacket and carelessly tossing it in the direction of the couch. She sidled around his large form, and entered her kitchen.  
  
"Peppermint tea would be welcome," Ian said, eyes studying the floor. He noted that she didn't seem to notice or care that her jacket had missed the sofa by a good measure.  
  
"Is your stomach bothering you again?" she inquired worriedly, filling her teapot.  
  
"No. I happen to enjoy peppermint tea," he replied, her obvious concern warming his heart.  
  
"Well, so do I, and you're in luck because it's one of the few things I do have," Sara told him ruefully, looking at her nearly bare cupboards. She put water on to boil and teabags in two mugs, deciding against more caffeine seeing as how she felt jumpy enough as it was.  
  
Ian made a mental note to call the grocer that Kenneth Irons' patronized and arrange to have all of her favorite foods delivered to her home by the time she got off work tomorrow. Virtual enslavement notwithstanding, being the employee of a billionaire did have its perks.  
  
"I'm just gonna go change my clothes. Would you mind pouring the water?" she asked over her shoulder, heading for her bedroom.  
  
"Not at all," he replied, shooting her a quick glance from beneath his lashes. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, he took a deep, calming breath, willing his pounding heart to slow. He was more than a little overwhelmed by the fact that he was here in his Lady's apartment with her approval. Heretofore, he'd always been an uninvited guest and she an extremely unwilling hostess.  
  
He was also very worried about the prospect of dining with her and her family. Although Ian had observed his master in social situations on countless occasions, his own interpersonal skills were nearly nonexistent and he was terribly afraid that he would embarrass Sara with his antisocial behavior. He stood there in the middle of her living room, staring into space and rocking as he only did when agitated, until the kettle started to whistle. Removing it from the flame, he poured the steaming water into the two mugs and then set them on the small kitchen table.  
  
Restlessly, he moved to the window by which he normally gained entrance to Lady Sara's loft, pressing his hot forehead against the blessedly cool glass for a moment and gazing unseeingly out into the darkness.  
  
Sara closed her bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, willing her racing pulse to slow down. She didn't understand why she was so nervous about Nottingham's presence in her personal space. Removing her holstered gun and badge and tossing them on the bed, she took off her boots, jeans, and t-shirt, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She rummaged through her closet for something to wear, thankful that she had recently done several loads of laundry but irritated that she hadn't bothered to put any of it away. It was still in bags on the floor of her closet. After selecting then rejecting several nearly identical pairs of well-worn denims and various sweaters, she finally settled on a pair of black velvet jeans and a black velour, v-neck sweater.  
  
She heard the kettle start to whistle, followed almost immediately by silence. Going into her bathroom, she studied her reflection critically for a minute. Telling herself she wanted to look nice for her family, she applied some mascara and a little lip gloss, although she decided there was nothing she could do about the dark circles beneath her eyes. After brushing her gleaming, just-past-shoulder-length chestnut hair, she started to put it back up in its customary ponytail, but then decided to leave it loose. Her motorcycle helmet fit better when she wore it that way, she justified, as she changed into her black suede dress boots.  
  
Nottingham was standing at the window through which he normally broke and entered her apartment when she came out of her bedroom a minute later. When he did not immediately turn around, Sara felt a flash of irritation, but then she realized that he was studying her reflection in the glass.  
  
Transfixed, Ian stared at her reflection in the window. Dressed entirely in black with her lustrous chestnut hair loose about her shoulders and a touch of makeup enhancing her natural beauty, she was breathtaking. "'In the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard shame,'" he said, and then flushed with embarrassment at this lapse in self-control.  
  
"Thank you," Sara said dubiously. "I think." She noted with some amazement that his already flushed cheeks had reddened with what was unmistakably a blush.  
  
Eyes suddenly glued to the floor, he turned to face her and indicated the kitchen table. "Our tea is ready." He sensed her fascination with his discomfiture.  
  
"Yeah, I guess we gotta leave pretty soon if we want to be there by 6:30," Sara said, thinking 'Joey was right: Nottingham is shy!'  
  
For some reason, the realization that he was even more nervous than she was enabled her to relax. She sat down and took up a mug. "Have a seat, Nottingham. A few more minutes won't make much of a difference in the time we get there," she told him, shoving another chair away from the table with her foot.  
  
Ian hesitated, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the setting, but then acquiesced, taking a cautious sip of his piping hot tea.  
  
"So, how old are you, Nottingham?" Sara asked him. He had taken off his hat, and several long tendrils of dark hair had escaped his previously neat queue to curl riotously around the sharp planes of his face. For the first time, she noticed that blond streaks lightened his hair, especially in front.  
  
"Thirty-two."  
  
"And how long have you been with Irons?"  
  
"Since I was eight years old."  
  
"That long, hunh? So, basically, he raised you." 'What a shitty childhood that must have been!' she thought.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Do you know what happened to your real parents?"  
  
"Apparently, they died in a car accident when I was still an infant."  
  
"Irons told you that?"  
  
"Yes. I was in an orphanage for about five years before Mr. Irons found me. Before that, I am told I lived with my only other living relative, an elderly great-aunt, of whom I have virtually no memory. She died when I was three and I was placed in the orphanage."  
  
"Five years, hunh? Why so long, do you think?"  
  
"I know why." He suddenly raised his eyes to meet hers. "It was because of the visions the Witchblade sent me as a child."  
  
Sara blinked uneasily at the febrile intensity of his hazel gaze. "You used to get visions from it when you were a little kid?"  
  
"It still sends me visions, but, yes, I experienced them throughout my entire childhood. In fact, as long as I can remember, I have received visions from the Witchblade. Every Protector does."  
  
Sara frowned. There was that term again. "So, these visions must have, uh, set you apart from the other kids at the orphanage."  
  
"Yes, they tended to do that, but from everybody, not just the other children. People, couples mostly, would come to the orphanage and take an interest in me. But sooner or later, I would have a vision and they would suddenly change their minds about wanting to adopt me. For some reason, what unnerved them the most is when I would speak Latin. I was four years old the first time that happened. The other children were frightened of me, too. So were the nuns who ran the orphanage, although they tried to hide it. Then one day, Mr. Irons came. He sat and spoke with me for hours. He asked me all kinds of questions, and not once did he show any hint of fear or even uneasiness in my presence. In fact, he became more and more excited as the hours went by. We conversed in Latin, German, French, and Chinese -- both Mandarin and Cantonese dialects."  
  
"But how is that possible?" Sara asked, pretty certain she already knew the answer.  
  
"Anything is possible when you serve the Witchblade, Sara, as I was born to do," he told her, shrugging. "Mr. Irons took me with him when he left that day. That is how I came to be in his service." Glancing at the clock on the wall of her kitchen, he rose to his feet, observing "We must leave soon, or we will be very late for dinner. Please excuse me while I make use of your facilities, my Lady." With another of those graceful, courtly bows, he turned and entered her bedroom.  
  
"You have a lot to answer for, Missy," Sara said sternly to the bracelet on her right wrist. The red stone had been quiescent since she had returned to Gabriel Bowman's place earlier that evening and collected her stalker. "Poor kid. He was an outcast from day one, all because of you."  
  
Her words, although softly spoken, clearly reached Ian behind her closed bathroom door, bringing a smile to his weary face, her compassionate response to the lonely picture he had painted of his childhood reminding him of exactly why she was so worthy of his undying devotion.  
More to come. Please submit feedback if you are so moved. I really appreciate it. 


	19. Chapter 20

A Family Affair  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Top Cow, TNT, etc. do. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
Author's Note: After much angst (okay, not that much), I decided to rewrite both Chapters 19 and 20. I was dissatisfied with the amount of exposition in the former Chapter 20, so I combined both characters' viewpoints and then split the resulting gigantic chapter into two. Sara and Ian are a team now anyway, right? What God hath joined, let no man put asunder (or something like that)! If you can't be bothered to reread both chappies, that's fine. I'll {sob} understand. For you first-timers, enjoy!  
Chapter 20.  
On the way to the elder Siris' home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, Ian Nottingham dutifully reported in to his master.  
  
"Ah, Ian, at last. I was wondering if you had forgotten my request for frequent updates," Kenneth Irons said acerbically, after answering on the first ring.  
  
"There was nothing to report until just recently, sir," Ian told him truthfully.  
  
"I take it the Wielder is still restricted to desk duty."  
  
"Yes. She only ventured outside three times today. Twice for coffee and once for lunch. It was not until she left work for the day that she informed me of her intention to stake out Pier 62, Berth 11, which is the location where the drug bust is scheduled to take place tonight. Of course, that is where I will be, too," he told his master.  
  
"Of course. Where is Detective Pezzini now?"  
  
"She is en route to the home of her godparents, Joseph and Marie Siri, for dinner," he told him, neglecting to mention that Lady Sara also planned to garage her motorcycle for the winter for fear that his master might guess that she and Ian were going to share his vehicle during the stakeout. At least this was what Nottingham intended to propose that they do; whether or not she accepted his offer remained to be seen.  
  
"Keep a very close eye on the Wielder, young Nottingham," Irons bade him, "Call and inform me how the operation went no matter how late it is. And once Sara retires for the evening, return home."  
  
"Yes, sir." Unplugging and removing the headset, Ian put his phone back in his coat pocket. He felt an irrational sense of guilt about betraying Sara's confidence by informing his master of her intentions. Although he knew Irons would not do anything with the information that might possibly harm the Wielder, Ian still felt bad about sharing it with him.  
  
They arrived at Joseph and Marie Siri's home at 18:40.  
  
Sara rode the Buell up the short driveway. The garage door was open and Joe Siri, Sr. and his namesake were standing inside it.  
  
"Here she is!" Joe Sr. said, opening his arms wide as Sara got off her bike and removed her helmet. He enveloped her in one of his patented bear hugs.  
  
Until that very moment, Sara hadn't realized how very much she'd missed him.  
  
"It's really good to see you, Joe," she told him huskily. "It's been too long."  
  
"Where's Ian?" Joey asked, looking up and down the street.  
  
"Hi, to you, too," Sara said. "He's parking his car. Joey, how are --" she found herself speaking to the cold night air as the boy took off down the driveway toward the street. "Okey dokey, then."  
  
"He's been talking nonstop about this fella of yours," Joe Sr. said, his craggy features creasing in a smile. "Joey said he's some kind of bodyguard?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, he's in personal security," Sara said distractedly, glancing toward the street.  
  
Ian had just located a parking space a couple of blocks away from Sara's godparents' home when he noticed Joseph Siri, Jr. approaching his vehicle.  
  
"Good evening, young Joseph," Ian greeted him as he got out of the car.  
  
"Hi, Ian. I could hardly believe it when Grandpa told me Aunt Sara was bringing you along with her. I guess you took my advice, hunh?" the boy said smugly.  
  
"Yes, I suppose I have," Ian concurred, joining him on the sidewalk. Ever mindful of his duty, he scanned the quiet, tree-lined street as they walked toward the house belonging to the teenager's grandparents.  
  
"She must be warming up to you if she invited you to join us for dinner," Joseph observed, extraordinarily pleased with himself judging by the big grin on his face.  
  
"Either that or she feels sorry for me," Ian murmured, "because of my glaring lack of a social life." 'Or any other kind of life,' he thought sourly.  
  
"Nah. Aunt Sara only brings guys that she likes over to Grandma and Grandpa's house," the teen said confidently, instantly causing Ian to start obsessing about just how many men Lady Sara had brought here in the past.  
  
Sara finally spotted Nottingham and her nephew walking up the street together. Joey was grinning up at the tall, dark-haired man and talking animatedly. The assassin listened attentively while simultaneously scanning the dark, quiet street.  
  
"Big guy, isn't he?" Joe Sr. murmured, watching them approach.  
  
"Sort of required in his line of work, Joe," Sara said, taking note of Nottingham's height and the muscular slope of his broad shoulders beneath his black wool overcoat as if for the first time. "Ian Nottingham, Joe Siri, Sr.," she introduced as he and her nephew drew nearer.  
  
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Siri. Sara has often spoken very fondly of you," Nottingham said in his deep, quiet voice, holding out a gloved hand to the older man.  
  
Joe Siri, Sr. gripped the black-clad man's hand and shook it firmly. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Nottingham. My grandson and me were just clearing a space for my goddaughter's motorcycle. My wife has been after me for weeks to get around to doing it, but I'm a procrastinator, so . . ." he shrugged.  
  
"Please, call me Ian. Is there something I can do to help?" Ian offered, glancing at the jumble of household detritus that cluttered the garage's interior. Judging from the leaf litter and water spots coating it, the car sitting in the driveway hadn't been housed inside the structure for some time, if ever.  
  
"Oh, no! Marie would have my head if I dared to put a guest to work. We're almost done, aren't we, Joey?"  
  
The boy eyed the garage dubiously. "Yeah, we should be finished by the time Grandma serves dessert," he cracked.  
  
"Come on, Mr. Wiseass, just help me move these boxes and we'll be done. Sara, you and Ian go on in. We'll join you in a couple of minutes," Joe Sr. said, grabbing his grandson by the sleeve.  
  
"Okay, see you inside," Sara said, grinning and heading for the front door.  
  
"Perhaps I should offer to help again. I do not think they can accomplish the task in just two minutes," Ian murmured, glancing back.  
  
"Nah. He'll cram my bike in there within minutes. He always does," Sara said dismissively, opening the door to the house. "Hey, everybody!"  
  
Marie Siri jumped up from where she had been sitting next to her daughter-in-law on the sofa and hurried to the door.  
  
"Oh, there you are, Sara! Did you see your godfather out there? I don't know how many times I reminded him to make room for your motorbike! He waits 'til now, of course!" she said, her voice still retaining a trace of her native land's accent. She gave Sara a warm hug and then looked curiously at the tall, dark-haired man standing next to her.  
  
"Marie Siri, Ian Nottingham," Sara introduced.  
  
Ian had immediately detected a faint but familiar cadence in the voice of the petite older woman with immaculately coiffed salt-and-pepper hair who greeted them at the door. He took off his hat and extended his hand. When Marie Siri placed hers in his, he brought it to his lips, kissing it, eyes gazing soulfully into hers, much as he'd seen his master do when he especially wished to win over a woman.  
  
Sara's eyebrows rose as she watched the two of them converse fluently in her godmother's native tongue for several moments.  
  
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Signora Siri," Ian said to her in Italian. "Your reputation for warm hospitality precedes you and I am honored to have been invited to sit at your table."  
  
"You speak my first language excellently, Mr. Nottingham. And I see that you are a gentleman. That is rare these days," Marie Siri said approvingly in the same language.  
  
"Please, Signora, call me Ian," he told her. "I was brought up to hold women in the highest regard, as is their due. And I have long wanted to meet the woman who had a hand in raising such a brave, intelligent, and honorable young woman as your beautiful goddaughter, Sara."  
  
"Oh, my! What a charmer!" Marie Siri finally said in English, blushing and placing a hand on her plump bosom. "I certainly hope you are hungry, Ian. There is plenty of food and I like my guests to eat well."  
  
Ian placed his hand on his heart, a look of sorrow -- a very close relative to the kicked-puppy, Sara thought irreverently -- crossing his face. "To my profound regret, I must confess that I am not feeling very well this evening, Mrs. Siri. I have a touch of the flu, and I'm afraid my stomach cannot handle a large meal. However, in order to please your goddaughter, I have promised that I will try to eat something," he responded.  
  
"Oh, you poor boy!" Marie clucked, taking him by the hand and leading him to the couch. "What was Sara thinking dragging you out of your sickbed to come here? Here, let me take your coat, and you just sit down here and relax. I have just the thing for you! Some of my Millecosedde soup. It is guaranteed to make you feel better!"  
  
Sara watched in amazement as her godmother transformed into a mother hen, fussing over her stalker. She even went so far as to feel Nottingham's forehead, tutt tutting at how hot it was. "Sara! What were you thinking dragging this poor, sick man out in this cold?" Marie reprimanded her. "He should be home in bed with that fever!"  
  
"Um, he wanted to come. He's not contagious if that's what you're worried about," Sara said, taken aback.  
  
"You should be worried about him catching his death of pneumonia out there! This coat is not nearly warm enough!" Marie informed her, shaking the offending garment at her.  
  
It was obvious to Ian that Sara was as surprised as he was at her godmother's solicitousness, and he hastened to tell the older woman that it was he who was to blame.  
  
"Signora Siri, please, do not be angry with Sara. She is right. I wanted to come and meet her family. She tried to persuade me to stay home in bed, but I insisted that I felt up to coming here tonight," Nottingham said soothingly.  
  
"Well, all right then, but you should go straight home to bed after dinner, young man," Marie said, mollified. She bustled off to hang up his and Sara's coats.  
  
"Hi, I'm Robert, Joey's father, and this is his mother, Paula," Robert Siri introduced himself and his wife, rising from his chair to hold out a hand to the other man and indicating Paula, who sat at the other end of the couch.  
  
Ian stood. "Ian Nottingham. I must compliment you both on what a fine job you have done raising your son. He is a remarkable young man," he said, first grasping Robert's hand and shaking it firmly, and then repeating his gallant hand-kissing gesture with Paula's hand.  
  
It was then Sara noticed that Nottingham had actually removed his gloves. She stared at his bare hands in fascination. They were very nice, strong-looking hands, the skin only slightly paler than that of his face. He had placed his heavy silver ring on the index finger of his right hand.  
  
Ian had just retaken his seat when he saw a dark-haired, preteen girl come down the stairs and approach the Wielder.  
  
Sara felt a little tug on her sleeve and glanced down to see her 11- year-old niece and Joey's kid sister, Gina Marie Siri, at her elbow.  
  
"Hi, Aunt Sara," the dark-haired girl said, smiling. She shot Nottingham a quick, shy glance.  
  
Sara hugged the slender girl. "Hey, cutie pie! Is it possible you've grown since the other night? You're already up to my shoulder!"  
  
"I have on heels, see?" she picked up her foot to show the low-heeled boots she wore.  
  
"That must be it," Sara said. "Ian Nottingham, this young lady is my niece, Gina Marie Siri."  
  
"Otherwise known as The Pain in the Butt," Joseph Siri, Jr. said, coming in the front door, his grandfather right behind him.  
  
"Shut up, Joey!" Gina Marie yelled at him, her face flushing with anger and embarrassment.  
  
Ian Nottingham rose gracefully from the couch then dropped to one knee in front of the young girl. Taking her hand, he gravely bowed his head over it and brushed it with his lips, much as he'd done with her grandmother and mother. "I am very pleased to meet you, Gina Marie Siri," he said softly, meeting her wide, brown eyes. Then he leaned a little closer to her and said, sotto voce, "Would you like me to beat Joey up for you? I am much bigger than he is, so I am pretty sure I can take him, even in my weakened condition."  
  
The girl giggled delightedly. "No, that's okay, Ian. I can beat him up all by myself and I will if he calls me names again!"  
  
"Very well then, but you have only to ask, my Lady, and it shall be done," Nottingham said, expression serious. He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Joey, who was grinning unabashedly, then rose to take his seat again. Gina Marie promptly plopped down on the sofa between him and her mother, flashing him a shy grin after sticking her tongue out at her older brother.  
  
Sara wondered who this man was that had taken over Nottingham's body. Judging by their admiring glances, he had managed to completely charm all of the females in the house within a minute of arriving. Even Robert and Joe Sr. were nodding approvingly at the way he had diffused the sibling rivalry. And it was obvious that Joey Jr. already had a bad case of hero worship. She shook her head at the extreme bizarreness of it all.  
  
From the bemused look on her face, Ian could tell that Sara was impressed with the swiftness with which he had ingratiated himself with her family. Truth be told, Nottingham himself was a little stunned by how relaxed he felt around so many strangers. He had even remembered to take off his gloves just after entering the house, and was only mildly uncomfortable about how naked his hands felt. He wondered if his rising fever was responsible for this.  
  
"Sara, sweetie, could you come help me in the kitchen for a moment?" her godmother said.  
  
'Here it comes,' Sara thought. 'The third degree.'  
  
"Sure, Marie." Resignedly, she followed her into the kitchen.  
  
Ian tried to eavesdrop on their discussion, but Joseph Siri, Sr. pulled up a chair and began chatting with him, distracting him enough so that he only caught snatches of the two women's conversation.  
  
"So, Sara and Joey say you're in the personal security business," the older man said.  
  
"Yes. I am head of security for Kenneth Irons," Ian responded.  
  
Joseph Sr.'s eyebrows rose. "The guy who owns half the city?"  
  
"Mr. Irons does not own quite that much real estate, but yes, he is my employer."  
  
"I guess that means you're licensed to carry then, hunh?"  
  
'Spoken like a true ex-cop,' Ian thought. "At all times," he agreed.  
  
"So, how did you meet my goddaughter?"  
  
"We met while she was working on a case," he said truthfully.  
  
"Oh, yeah, I remember that case. It was one of the last ones I handled before retiring. An explosion following a shootout at the Midtown Museum, where your boss had some items on display in an exhibit, right? You were there that day?"  
  
"Yes. As Mr. Irons' head of security, I was tasked with making certain nothing happened to the extremely valuable artifacts that were on loan to the museum and that were featured in the Joan of Arc exhibit."  
  
"I understand that everything was pretty much a total loss. He must not have been too happy about that, hunh?"  
  
"He was simply grateful that no harm befell Sara," Ian said quietly, "as was I."  
  
In the kitchen, Marie Siri, the woman who was the closest thing to a mother that Sara had had since her own mother had died of cancer when she was very young, barely waited until the swinging door closed behind them before turning and demanding "So, where did you meet Ian?"  
  
"Um, I met him while working a case," Sara answered truthfully.  
  
"What exactly does he do for a living? Joey said something about him being a bodyguard? That's dangerous work."  
  
"Yes, he's head of security for Kenneth Irons. Maybe you've heard of him?"  
  
Marie's dark eyes widened. "The billionaire?"  
  
"That's the one."  
  
"Oh, my!" her godmother murmured. "Both of you have very dangerous jobs. That's not good. God forbid something should happen to you both. What would happen to the children? I suppose Robert and Paula could take them in."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on a minute there, Mrs. Hurry-Up-and-Make-Me- a-Grandma-Again! We're just friends! That's all!" Sara said quickly and emphatically.  
  
"But he's so handsome, charming, and well-mannered!" Marie said. "You need a strong man like him to take care of you, Sara. Plus, I think he might be Italian."  
  
"Okay, that's enough, Marie! I hate to disappoint you, but there's nothing going on between us. We're, um, professional acquaintances. That's all. Really."  
  
"Humph," her godmother said, clearly unconvinced. "I think you'd be foolish to let that one get away. Don't close your eyes to love, cara. It doesn't come around that often."  
  
"Um, yeah. Right. I'll remember that. Now, do you actually want me to help you with something or was that just an excuse to give me the third degree?"  
  
"You can bring the rolls out to the table, sweetie," Marie said, handing her a basket in which to put the fragrant, golden-brown rolls that she removed from the oven. Sara's stomach growled loudly, and she realized that she was famished.  
  
Minutes later, Marie Siri announced that dinner was served.  
  
Ian took the seat to his Lady's right while young Joseph took the chair next to him. Sara's godmother personally served Ian a bowl of her Millecosedde soup, extolling its curative powers, and then watched closely while he slowly ate every bit of it. She attempted to get him to sample some of the other dishes she had prepared but he politely declined all further nourishment. Although the delicious soup appeared to agree with him, Ian decided not to push his luck.  
  
Conversation was lively throughout the meal, and everybody went out of their way to include him. Not surprisingly, one subject that was studiously avoided was young Joseph's recent legal troubles.  
  
"I like your beard and mustache and your hair, Ian," Gina Marie told him at one point, overcoming her shyness. "My daddy says men with long hair look like sissies, but I don't think yours makes you look like a sissy," she informed him, causing her father to choke on a bite of his food.  
  
Her brother burst out laughing, although everyone else tried to keep a straight face.  
  
"Thank you for the compliment, my Lady," Ian said, jabbing a chortling Joseph Jr. with his elbow.  
  
"Ow!" the boy exclaimed, putting on his most innocent expression. "What did I do?"  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Joey," his mother admonished him, hiding a smile behind her napkin and reaching over to thump her coughing husband on the back.  
  
Ian's eyes kept returning to Sara's face. She was as relaxed as he'd ever seen her, and her frequent husky laughter teased his senses. From time to time, she would glance at him and smile encouragingly, causing his heart rate to speed up. It was obvious that she enjoyed being in the bosom of her adoptive family and that she was secure in their love. He was also glad to see that she ate very well, even having a second helping of practically everything.  
  
Sara noticed that her godmother watched with an eagle eye as Nottingham ate a bowl of her vegetable soup. Marie tried to push some of her antipasto, chicken cacciatore, lasagna, and risotto on him, but he politely declined. Sara ate everything, and even had seconds. It was not often that she had home cooking, especially of this caliber. By the time dessert was served, she could feel the Witchblade swirling contentedly, the glowing stone safely concealed by her sleeve.  
  
Ian had been lulled into a false sense of security by his hostess's grandmotherly warmth and matronly decorum. Too late, he realized that he had committed a serious tactical error by divulging that he spoke Italian fluently as soon as he crossed the threshold of the tidy little home.  
  
The inquisition started out innocently enough over the dessert course.  
  
"So, Ian," Marie Siri said in her native tongue, dark eyes pinning him, "where are your people from?"  
  
"I am afraid I do not know, Signora. I was adopted," Ian replied politely in the same language.  
  
"Ah! That explains the non-Italian name. What a terrible thing not to know your people," she lamented, shaking her head sadly. "How is it that you speak with a Southern Italian accent?"  
  
"My tutor was from Abruzzi."  
  
"Hearty eaters, those people. My people are from the province of Catanzaro in Calabria. I would have guessed that your people hailed from Sicily, or perhaps Sardinia. You have that look. What are your intentions toward my goddaughter?"  
  
"M-my intentions?" he stammered, thrown by the lightning-swift change of subject.  
  
"Yes. Do you intend to marry her? You are not so young and she is not getting any younger. I would like to see her children, whom I would consider to be my grandchildren, before I die. You do want children, don't you?"  
  
"Um, I -- "  
  
"Of course you do. Do you love her?"  
  
"More than life itself."  
  
"Ah!" Marie smiled with satisfaction at his unhesitating response. "That is good. So, you are courting her, yes?"  
  
"Well, not in the traditional sense, no," Ian said, feeling a blush color his cheeks.  
  
Although no one else present spoke the language, Ian had the horrible suspicion that they all knew exactly what the Siri family matriarch was up to. He shot Sara a quick look and saw that she was smirking slightly as she observed their exchange with great interest. A glance at the others revealed sympathetic looks on Joseph Sr.'s and Robert Siri's faces, while Paula and Gina Marie Siri stared at his burning face with almost identical expressions of fascination. Joseph Jr. just grinned cheekily at him around a piece of tiramisu.  
  
"Young people these days do everything backward. They make love first, then begin courting! They move in together, then get married! Are you intimate with my goddaughter?"  
  
"Um, we are just friends and business associates, Signora Siri," he said, his cheeks, if possible, becoming even redder. "She does not think of me in that manner."  
  
Ian now knew what a cornered animal felt like. Out of sheer desperation, he toyed with the idea of pretending to become nauseous again so that he would have a legitimate excuse to rush from the table. But, regretfully, he decided that there was no honor in that sort of deception; his hostess's feelings would be badly hurt and, worse yet, Sara would never hear the end of it. And so, the relentless questions continued unchecked.  
  
"But you admit that you are in love with her?"  
  
"Yes, ever since I first laid eyes on her."  
  
Marie beamed. "I knew it! Of course, she is too thin and she works too hard. Plus, because of her job, she thinks she has to be tough and act like one of the boys. I blame her father, may he rest in peace, for that. After her mother, God rest her soul, died when Sara was just a little girl, her father let her run wild. I suppose it was inevitable that she would become a tomboy. I guess James did the best he could. Still, Sara is very passionate and would make a fine mother. All she needs is a strong man to take her in hand. I think you are that man, Ian Nottingham. Do not make me wait too long for more grandchildren, eh? My time on this earth is growing short. Tell me, how do you intend to court her? Maybe I can give you some advice."  
  
Sara had winced when Marie Siri commenced to give Nottingham the third degree over espresso and homemade tiramisu. Although her godmother had the good grace to interrogate the unsuspecting man in Italian, Sara and everyone else present knew exactly what she was doing. A telltale blush reddened Ian's face at one point, drawing sympathetic grins from all of the males and fascinated stares from all of the females present. After several minutes of relentless questions, a hunted look started to creep over the black-clad man's features. She decided to take pity on him.  
  
"Nottingham, come with me. I wanna show you something," Sara said, rising from the table. "Excuse us, please," she murmured, ignoring her godmother's frown.  
  
Ian was devoutly grateful that Sara chose that moment to say she wanted to show him something in another part of the house. He pushed away from the table with indecent haste and followed her, convinced that he could feel Marie Siri's gaze boring into his back as he walked away.  
  
Sara led him upstairs. "Sorry about the third degree. Marie does that to everybody I bring home," she said apologetically.  
  
"Have you brought many male companions here, Sara?" Ian could not stop himself from asking, then waited for her to rightfully tell him to mind his own business..  
  
Surprised at his query, Sara glanced back at Nottingham's face, but, as usual, his eyes were downcast, the loose tendrils of hair effectively hiding his expression.  
  
"A few over the years. Not anybody recently," she admitted, and then instantly wondered why she had. It was really none of his damn business!  
  
They reached the second floor, and Sara opened a door halfway down the hall on the left, flicking on the light to reveal a small bedroom with shell-pink walls. She flopped onto the afghan-covered bed, rubbing her stomach and yawning. "I ate like a pig," she said, studying her stalker through half-closed eyes. The two cups of espresso she'd drunk hadn't kicked in yet, and she was feeling decidedly relaxed and sleepy.  
  
Ian glanced around the room curiously then slowly began to walk around it, examining the posters on the walls, the decorative items on the shelves, and the framed pictures on top of the bureau. The posters were mostly of musical groups that had apparently been popular when Sara was in high school. There was one from a band called The Smiths and another featuring a group by the name of The Talking Heads. There was also a poster of a gleaming Harley-Davidson motorcycle, an exact miniature of which sat on one of the shelves.  
  
"This was my room when I came to live here after my father died," the Wielder told him. "It was Robert's before I moved in, but he'd already moved out by the time I arrived. In fact, he had already married Paula, his childhood sweetheart, and started a family. Joey was just a baby."  
  
"This is a house filled with love," Ian said softly. "The walls practically vibrate with it. You are very lucky to be a part of this family, my Lady."  
  
One of the photos caught his attention. It was of a young Sara Pezzini. Apparently it had been taken during the summer, because the shorts she wore exposed long, coltish legs and the bridge of her nose looked as though it might be sunburnt. Her shiny, dark-auburn hair in ponytails, Sara stared unsmilingly into the camera, and Ian's heart ached to see that shadows were visible in her beautiful eyes.  
  
"How old were you in this picture?" he asked, showing it to her.  
  
She glanced at it, and made a face. "Ugh. Fourteen. The rest of my body hadn't yet caught up to my legs, I had braces, and I was flat as a board. Not a good year." In more ways than one: that was the year her father had been killed.  
  
"You were beautiful even then," Nottingham murmured, finding the courage to briefly make eye contact with her before putting the picture back where he had found it.  
  
Sara turned onto her side, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and resting her head in her hand. "I certainly didn't feel beautiful. I was the girl whose father had been murdered and who had no mother. I tried to ignore the stares and whispers, but it wasn't easy. I was an orphan. Like you. That's not to say Marie and Joe didn't do their best to try to make me a part of their family. They did. They also have two daughters, you know. Joanie, their youngest, is only two years older than me. But she was in her junior year when I transferred to her school as a freshman, and she already had her own life and friends. I just never fit in with her clique, or any other for that matter," she told the black-clad man, whose back was to her but who she could tell was listening intently to her. "So, I guess I sort of know how you felt in that orphanage."  
  
"But instead of visions that laid out your destiny for you, you suffered from the stigma of tragedy. I think it was actually easier for me," Ian told her, sensing her surprise at his words. "I only gradually came to realize I was different from the other children. And at least I had being an orphan in common with them. You were instantly identified as different because of your loss and at a very difficult age. That must have been a very lonely time for you, Sara."  
  
Sara's eyes widened as she saw him reach up and brush away a tear from his face. "Nottingham, are you crying?" she asked in astonishment, noting that he did not seem at all embarrassed that she had caught him weeping.  
  
"'Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break,'" he said in a low voice. He glanced at her, eyes dark with regret, bearded features somber. "I am grieving for your lost innocence, my Lady. Would that I could have spared you that pain." Grief and loss were the names of those shadows in her green, green eyes, then and now.  
  
"Hey, high school was a long time ago. I'm over it," Sara assured him, but was horrified to feel tears pricking her own eyelids. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to stroll down memory lane," she muttered, sitting up and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes in an effort to dispel the tears.  
  
Hoping to distract her from the bad memories, Ian grabbed a photograph of her with a very young Joseph Siri, Jr. on her lap.  
  
"How old was Joseph in this picture?" he asked, handing her the photo of herself holding the small, dark-haired toddler.  
  
But as soon as Sara touched the picture, the Witchblade threw them both into a vision.  
  
They saw Joey walk into an unfamiliar building that had a guard station and metal detector in the foyer. Sara's nephew emptied the contents of his pockets into a little basket, the guard looked through his book bag carefully, returned it to him, and then waved him through the detector. Joey then signed in at what looked to be a nurse's station, where he also checked his knapsack. He was given a pass and told to take a certain elevator bank to get where he wanted to go.  
  
The vision fast-forwarded to Joey knocking on a door of what looked like a hospital room. A voice said "Come in," and the boy entered. There, sitting on the bed, was Amanda Lundquist. She smiled happily and rose to give him a hug. She still looked too thin and pale, but no longer jittery, and her blue eyes were bright and clear.  
  
"It's been almost 96 hours since I last got high, so they said I could have a supervised visit for a half an hour today. I chose you as my first visitor!" the girl told Joey. Then she indicated a young African- American woman sitting in a chair near the window. "This is one of my counselors, Imani. Imani, this is my boyfriend, Joey."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Joey," the other woman said.  
  
"It's nice to meet you, too, Imani. I'm so glad you called, Amanda. When I got home from dinner at my grandparents last night and heard your voice on the answering machine, I couldn't believe it!" Joey said, kissing the top of her head tenderly. "I could hardly wait for school to end today."  
  
"Did they catch the guy who killed Paco yet?" Amanda asked him anxiously.  
  
"No. My aunt says the drug bust that was supposed to catch him fell through last night. She says I should keep my eyes open, 'cause I could still be in danger. In fact, she didn't want me to come up here today, but I told her I wouldn't miss it for the world. I was supposed to wait for her to come get me after school, but she was delayed and I couldn't wait any longer. It's so good to see you, 'Manda."  
  
"It's good to see you, too, Joey." They kissed.  
  
The vision fast-forwarded again to Joey saying good-bye to Amanda and leaving the rehab facility. He started walking down the street toward the subway, when suddenly a car pulled up alongside him. A ski-masked man rolled down the window and yelled "Say hello to Paco for me, kid!" and started shooting. Several bullets hit Joey. Mortally wounded, he collapsed to the ground. The car peeled off.  
  
"No!" Sara screamed as the vision released her. "Oh my God, Joey!"  
  
She scrambled to her feet in a panic, intent on rushing downstairs to verify that her nephew was alive and well, only to have Nottingham grab her by the shoulders.  
  
"Sara, wait!" he said urgently. "Joseph's safe. The vision was only a warning. We can prevent what you saw from happening."  
  
"He died, Nottingham," Sara sobbed, tears spilling from haunted green eyes. "I saw him die!"  
  
"It is not going to happen. We will not allow it to," he promised, enfolding her in his arms.  
  
Amazingly, she clung to him, blindly seeking the comfort he offered, until her godfather suddenly appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Is everything all right?" Joe Siri, Sr. said. "We all thought we heard Sara scream."  
  
Hastily, Sara pulled away from Ian, leaving him feeling bereft.  
  
Scrubbing the tears from her face, Sara struggled to regain her composure. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine, Joe. I, I just -- "  
  
"This room and my prying questions brought back some bad memories of her father's death," Nottingham interjected smoothly. "I apologize for upsetting you, Sara."  
  
"It's okay. Whew!" She shook her head as if to clear it. "I've been under a lot of stress lately. I didn't realize coming in here was going to affect me this way," she said sheepishly.  
  
Her godfather seemed to accept this explanation. "You do look tired, sweetheart," he said gently. "Maybe you'd better call it a night? Excuse me for saying so, but you don't look so hot either, Ian."  
  
"Yeah, you're probably right," Sara agreed. "But that reminds me, do you have a digital thermometer I can borrow? I wanna check his temp."  
  
"Sure thing, doll. It's in the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom." He left.  
  
"We've got to catch Angel Medina, Nottingham. Tonight," Sara said as soon as she was sure her godfather was out of earshot. She turned and walked out of her old room, heading down the hall and into the master bedroom. "But first we have to find him."  
  
Ian followed her, a plan forming in his mind. "I have an idea of how we might do that," he told her. He found it odd but extremely gratifying that in spite of her obvious anxiety about young Joseph's continued well- being, she was still concerned about his own health.  
  
"Good, because I sure as hell didn't." She went into her godparents' bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, taking out the thermometer and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Extracting a cotton ball from a jar on the étagère above the toilet, she disinfected the device, pressed the button, waited a few seconds, and then turned to Nottingham. "Open up."  
  
Obediently, he opened his mouth and she inserted the thermometer under his tongue. Sara abruptly realized that despite her near state of panic concerning her nephew's safety, she still had the presence of mind to worry about her stalker's health. She didn't really comprehend why this should be so, but it was.  
  
Fast double beeps sounded. Sara plucked the thermometer from Ian's mouth and peered at the display. She frowned. "102.1. This is not good, Nottingham. You need that antidote."  
  
"And I will get it. After we put away Angel Medina," Ian said firmly. He was very aware of how close she was standing to him. He breathed through his nose, inhaling her distinctive scent, a heady mixture of French lavender, vanilla, tuberose, and her own essence, certain his temperature had shot up a degree or two in just those few moments.  
  
"Okay, deal," she said. "Now, what's your plan?"  
More to come. Please review and leave feedback if you feel like it. I appreciate it! 


	20. Chapter 21

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Witchblade. Somebody else does. I mean no disrespect. I am just playing around. Enjoy! dragongrrl  
  
  
  
Chapter 21.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham had to struggle for a moment to gather his wits. It was dismaying how easily distracted he was by Sara Pezzini's proximity. He didn't think his fever was sufficiently high enough to account for the disturbing tendency he had of losing his train of thought whenever she was close to him. He was beginning to think sharing his vehicle with her tonight was not such a good idea. These lapses of concentration would surely be exacerbated by the enforced intimacy of the car ride. It was essential that he stay focused if he was to successfully execute the plan of action he had come up with.  
  
Sara was staring at him expectantly, waiting to hear the details of said plan.  
  
"Remember the miscreant whose arm I broke the other night?" he asked her.  
  
She nodded. "How could I forget him? I thought you were gonna blow his head off with one of those cannons of yours."  
  
"Well, it is a good thing I refrained from doing so, because I believe he is the key to finding Angel Medina."  
  
Sara frowned as she put the thermometer back in her godparents' medicine cabinet. "How so?"  
  
"Do you recall what he said to you after you insulted he and his friends?" Ian inquired.  
  
She thought about it for a moment. "Uh, something about it not being right that I came into their hood, poked my nose where it didn't belong, and then had the nerve to insult them, I think."  
  
"That second part is what leads me to believe that he might know where Angel Medina is. His words indicated that he was aware of just what the building you searched had been used for, so it follows that he knows the new location where Angel has set up shop. In all likelihood, Medina did not move his operation very far because of the territory that he supplies and collects for. His drug den is probably still in the same neighborhood."  
  
"Are you saying Broken Arm was Angel's lookout?" Sara asked him. In the vision in which she'd seen events unfold from Paco Gutierrez's perspective, she remembered how someone had come right behind the doomed drug dealer and replaced the padlock on the door to the condemned building. Sara was fairly certain that person had been a lookout.  
  
"Hopefully, he still is. If we can find him tonight, I am pretty sure I can persuade him to tell us where Angel is."  
  
"Nottingham, by any chance, will your method of persuasion involve another 'extremely painful' anatomy lesson? Wait a sec, don't answer that! I don't wanna know!" Sara said quickly, shaking her head. "But you realize this means we now have to find two people: this guy and then Angel. I guess you're good at remembering faces, hunh?"  
  
"I would recognize all six of your would-be assailants if I saw them again," he informed her. "But identifying this particular man will be very easy given that he will be sporting a brand-new cast on his right arm, courtesy of yours truly." Nottingham flashed her a wolfish smile.  
  
Sara's heart skipped a beat at the way it transformed his usually somber features.  
  
She suddenly became aware of how small the bathroom they were standing in was. The tall assassin stood so close to her, she could feel the feverish heat radiating off of his big body. Sara inhaled, and the black-clad man's scent -- a pleasing combination of sandalwood, vetiver, balsam, and something else she couldn't put a name to -- filled her nostrils.  
  
"What is wrong, Sara?" Ian asked, instantly picking up on her sudden nervousness. A moment ago, he had noticed her pupils dilate and her nostrils flare.  
  
"Uh, nothing. Nothing's wrong. We'd better say our goodbyes and then get this show on the road," she murmured, abruptly turning and leaving the bathroom. 'Get a grip, Pezzini. So what he has a gorgeous smile. He's still your psycho stalker!' she sternly reminded herself.  
  
Sighing, Ian followed her. Wistfully, he wondered what he had done to unnerve her this time. He thought back over his words of the past few minutes, but couldn't recall any inappropriately sincere declarations of devotion. Perhaps his implied willingness to inflict more damage on the man they were about to go in search of in order to obtain the information they needed had put her off. After all, as an officer of the law, she really wasn't supposed to condone violent methods of coercion.  
  
Downstairs, the Siri family had gathered in the living room once again. Sara's eyes immediately went to her nephew, and she could barely restrain herself from rushing over to him and hugging him tightly. Joey smiled at her when he noticed her looking at him, and she forced herself to smile back even though what she really wanted to do was burst into tears. As it was, she knew that it was obvious that she'd been crying. A glance in the mirror in her godparents' bathroom had confirmed that her eyes were red and puffy, and that her mascara had run.  
  
"Marie, sorry to eat and run like this, but I'm beat and Nottingham's fever is on the rise," Sara said to her godmother, who rose from the sofa and accepted a hug from her goddaughter.  
  
"Oh, that's quite all right, sweetie," she said, patting her on the back. "Ian, you must come back and visit us again when you're feeling better. Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?" Marie Siri asked as she went to the closet to retrieve their coats.  
  
Sara bit back a groan. 'Could you be any more obvious, Marie?' she thought, irritated.  
  
"If my employer does not require my services that day, I would be delighted to join you and your family for Thanksgiving dinner," Ian told his hostess, taking his and Sara's coats from her. "Thank you for having me, Signora Siri." He performed one of his courtly bows and once again brushed her hand with his lips. "I feel obliged to once again offer my apologies for the fact that my ill health prevented me from doing justice to the magnificent meal you prepared this evening."  
  
"Oh, you sweet boy! You are most welcome!" she gushed, beaming. "Sara, don't forget what I told you," her godmother said, winking at her.  
  
Sara felt her face redden. "Yeah, yeah. Goodnight everybody!" She snatched her coat from Nottingham and bolted for the door, completely ignoring the fact that he had clearly been intending to help her into it.  
  
"Goodnight, Sara!" the other members of her family called after her.  
  
"It was a pleasure meeting all of you," Ian said to them, shrugging into his overcoat and pulling on his gloves. He leveled a stern look at Joseph Siri, Jr. "Be good, young Joseph."  
  
"Later, Ian," the teen said, grinning.  
  
"G'bye, Ian!" Gina Marie Siri chirped, waving. "See you at Thanksgiving!"  
  
"It was nice meeting you, too, Ian," Robert and Paula Siri said, almost in unison.  
  
"Feel better soon, son," Joseph Sr. said, walking Ian to the door and shaking his hand again.  
  
"Thank you, sir. And thank you for having me. Goodnight." He turned and followed Sara out the front door.  
  
The Wielder was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, looking a bit sheepish.  
  
"You didn't have to humor my godmother, you know, Nottingham," she told him, taking her knit hat from her coat pocket and pulling it over her gleaming hair.  
  
"I was not humoring her, my Lady. I meant what I said. I would consider it an honor to join you and your family for the Thanksgiving meal," he said quietly, putting on his own hat. Automatically, his eyes scanned the dark street for any sign of danger.  
  
"Even after the third degree she laid on you?"  
  
"That was grueling," he admitted wryly. "But, yes, even in spite of that."  
  
They began to walk in the direction of where he had parked his SUV.  
  
"I'll bet she asked you if we were, ahem, more than friends."  
  
"Yes, she did," he confirmed, eyes on the ground directly in front of him.  
  
"What did you tell her?" she asked curiously, watching his face.  
  
"The truth." Ian shot her a quick sideways glance. "That we are simply business associates," he said, leaving out the part about calling Sara his friend, as well as the bit about the fact that she did not think of him in a romantic way.  
  
"That's what I told her, but I don't think she believed me."  
  
"She only wants you to be happy in life and love, Sara," he told her. "Is that not what all mothers want for their daughters?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess so, but what bothers me is Marie practically has us married off already. God forbid she should get it into her head that I have feelings for you," Sara said. "Luckily, there's no chance of that happening. Otherwise, I'd never hear the end of it."  
  
Ian closed his eyes for a moment, his heart constricting with pain in his chest at her careless words. "Yes," he said flatly, "luckily there is absolutely no chance of that."  
  
Sara frowned at him. "Gee, Nottingham, you didn't have to be so quick to agree."  
  
Ian glanced at her in confusion. "But you just said --"  
  
"I know what I said," Sara cut him off, "but you make it sound so, so," she waved her hands around vaguely as she searched for a word, "so damn cold."  
  
"I am sorry if my response came across as callous. I was merely agreeing with you that I am not someone you could ever learn to care for, that is all," he said quietly, eyes on the ground.  
  
"Now you make me sound heartless. How soon you forget who arranged for you to have someplace warm to stay this morning!" she snapped at him. 'What are you getting so upset about, Pezzini?' she asked herself. 'It's not like you care what he thinks about you.'  
  
"On the contrary, until the day I die, I will remember your kindness toward me this day. Your compassion was and is undeniable, my Lady, and it is just one of the reasons I would willingly give my life for you."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on there, cowboy! Nobody's gonna die tonight or tomorrow, if I can help it!" Sara said quickly. "We're catching Angel, saving Joey, and getting you that antidote. End of story." There was an air of resignation about the black-clad assassin that disturbed her. She got the distinct impression that the prospect of his own death held absolutely no fear for him, and this bothered her more than she cared to admit.  
  
"Besides," she added before she could think better of it, "I never said I didn't have feelings for you. I just said I'd never hear the end of it if my godmother ever found out that I did."  
  
Ian's eyes met hers, astonishment plainly visible in their fever- bright, hazel depths. "You have feelings for me, Sara?"  
  
She shrugged self-consciously. "Well, they're not warm and fuzzy or anything, but, yeah."  
  
"'The miserable have no other medicine, but only hope: I have hope to live, and am prepared to die,'" Ian murmured, his spirits soaring at her gruff words.  
  
"This death wish of yours bothers me, Nottingham," Sara blurted out. "You can't protect me if you're dead."  
  
"No matter how much I wish I could spare you from life's cold, harsh realities, my Lady, I cannot lie to you: Death is, and probably always will be, my constant companion. Usually, I am the one who metes it out, but, lately, I have felt its shadow growing longer, dimming my own light." He shrugged. "Maybe this is a function of the poison that is slowly but surely killing me. Or maybe it is a function of who and what I am. You are a good, kind, and honorable person, Sara, who was raised to revere and uphold the law. I, on the other hand, am a highly trained assassin. I know a hundred different ways of taking a life in less time than it takes to draw a breath. My very existence is an insult to the law. I am, and always will be, unworthy of your admiration. That is fact. There is absolutely no shame in admitting that you could never learn to care for a creature such as me, Sara. I am under no illusion that it could ever be otherwise."  
  
Sara stared at him in silence for several moments after this speech, the longest she had ever heard from him. "Geez, Nottingham, lighten up!" she finally said. "You can be such a downer sometimes, what with the gloomy Shakespearean quotes and whatnot, you know that?"  
  
"I am just calling it as I see it, my Lady," he said softly, quoting Gabriel Bowman.  
  
"Uh, yeah. Right. Whatever. Open up the freakin' car already. It's freezing out here!" she said, shivering, but not just from the cold. Her dark knight, indeed!  
  
  
  
More to come! Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. 


	21. Chapter 22

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 22.  
  
Sara Pezzini sat in the passenger seat of Ian Nottingham's SUV, thinking hard about what she had just said to the man behind the wheel. Her eyes stared blindly out the window at the scenery rushing by.  
  
'Did you really just admit to your stalker that you have feelings for him?' she asked herself. Unconsciously, she nodded. 'Yeah, you did, Pezzini. You even admitted that his death wish disturbs you. What the hell was that about?'  
  
Then her thoughts drifted to the speech the man next to her had just given. There was absolutely no denying the fact that he was what he claimed to be -- a highly trained assassin for whom killing was apparently more than merely an occupation; it was an art form.  
  
"A hundred different ways, hunh?" she said, breaking the silence.  
  
Without taking his eyes off the road, Nottingham nodded. "At least."  
  
"Hmph." Sara frowned as she saw that they were almost to the river crossing. "About this plan of yours, Nottingham. Where, exactly, do I fit into it? You don't expect me to just sit in the car and wait while you track this guy down, do you?"  
  
"Actually, yes, with your cooperation, of course, that was what I had intended. As the other night proved, you tend to draw attention to yourself in this sort of urban setting," he told her.  
  
"Oh, yeah, and you look like you're straight from the hood!" she scoffed.  
  
A suggestion of a smile turned up the corners of his lips. "No, I cannot claim that I do. However, I can move about undetected, whereas you cannot. Our quarry must be taken unawares, and I can promise you he will never see me coming."  
  
"Or going," Sara muttered. "Okay, granted, your, uh, ninja stealth tactics are called for in this situation, but once you find him and get the lowdown on Angel's whereabouts, then what?"  
  
"Then we pay Angel a visit."  
  
"Now you're talking!" Sara grinned, feeling the Witchblade spark in anticipation on her right wrist. But then a troubling thought struck her. "Nottingham, in the vision, Joey said the drug bust on the docks fell through. What if what we're about to do is what causes it to fail? What if we're the ones that stop Angel from making the pickup? Even if I do end up collaring him, how am I going to explain that? I'll have ruined months of planning that went into catching this guy. If the DEA and the narcotics squad had wanted to simply put him away on murder charges, they'd have busted him already. They really, really want to catch him and his brother with this drug shipment."  
  
"There could be any number of reasons the drug bust operation is doomed to fail, Sara," Ian pointed out. "For all we know, Angel might have decided to send someone else to pick up the shipment, and that is why he is not caught."  
  
Sara shook her head. "No, my guy in narcotics says Angel's so paranoid, he only trusts himself or his brother, Joaquin, to know the location of and to make the actual pickup. Plus, there's something I didn't tell you about this whole mess. Narcotics has an undercover detective next to Angel. I suspect he was there when Angel killed Paco, and that he gave Joey's and Amanda's descriptions to his commanding officer 'cause he knew they'd be in danger. He was also the one who put the word out that Angel was due to pick up a major shipment of product in the next 24 hours. We move on Angel, and he'll be forced to blow his cover. Shit, shit, shit! I just don't see how we can get around this!" she said, frustrated.  
  
"That does complicate matters somewhat," Ian agreed. "I am inclined to agree with you that we should not move on Angel until he makes that pickup."  
  
Sara fidgeted in her seat. "Besides, the DEA and narcotics are bound to have surveillance on Angel's new location, don't you think? They'd know the minute we tried to move on Angel. But we can't just do nothing. Joey's life is hanging in the balance."  
  
"Let us review what we do know courtesy of the Witchblade's vision. We know that tonight's operation on the docks fails to catch Angel, suggesting that either he becomes spooked or that the docks were never the real pickup location in the first place. We also know that at Angel's behest, somebody goes gunning for young Joseph tomorrow afternoon. Can you remember any details about the shooter's appearance? I am not sure, but I think he may have had a Colombian accent."  
  
The last thing Sara wanted was to remember those awful moments, but it seemed the Witchblade had other ideas.  
  
Once again, it was as though Sara were watching a slideshow. The first slide showed Joey leaving the rehab center. In the background, Sara realized that she could see the car driven by his killer double-parked at the curb. Unfortunately, she saw that the driver had already donned his ski mask. The next slide showed the car pulling up alongside Joey. The next slide showed the driver's gloved hand pointing a gun out the open driver-side window. It was then Sara noticed that the man's coat sleeve had been pulled back, revealing part of a tantalizingly familiar tattoo on his left forearm. The slide faded to black, thankfully before Sara was forced to witness her nephew's murder again.  
  
"I saw something! Part of a tattoo on the shooter's arm! Something I could swear I've seen before!" Sara said excitedly. She looked at Nottingham curiously. "It's kinda weird that the Witchblade showed you the vision, too. Has that happened before?" she asked him.  
  
"Focus, Sara. Where do you think you saw the tattoo before?"  
  
"You're the one with the photographic memory, not me! I can't remember where I saw it before!" she snapped.  
  
Nottingham ignored her peevishness, just as he had her question. "Take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes. Visualize the tattoo fragment. Let your mind relax and it will come to you where you saw it before. My Lady, you can do this. I know you can," he said, his deep, quiet voice soothing her frayed nerves.  
  
Sara did as he suggested, forcing her body to relax in her seat. She pictured the partial tattoo on the shooter's arm in the vision and let her mind sift through images from the past few stress-filled days. Suddenly, superimposed on it was another, whole tattoo, and she recalled exactly where she had seen it before.  
  
"It's a tattoo of a cobra. Oh my God, I think the shooter is Angel!" she breathed. But then she frowned. "No, wait, his tattoo was on his right arm. In fact, now that I think about it, Angel is right-handed, and the shooter in the vision is left-handed."  
  
"You said Angel Medina has a brother named Joaquin. Maybe he is left- handed and has a matching tattoo," Nottingham suggested.  
  
"Maybe you're right. Or maybe it's an old gang tat and another of Angel's boys is the shooter. There's only one way to find out. I've got to go to the precinct and check the database. Joaquin's sure to have a record nearly as long as his brother's. My contact in narcotics says he's a real psycho. Must run in the family. While we're there, you can look at some mug shots and see if you can identify Broken Arm, another upstanding citizen of our fair city. That way, we can get an address on him, which means you won't have to go roof hopping in search of him. Sorry about that, Nottingham. I know how much you love putting your ninja skills to use."  
  
"How will you explain my presence to the duty sergeant at the 11th Precinct, Sara?" Ian asked her, ignoring her snide comment.  
  
"I'll say you were the victim of a mugging and need to look at some mug shots," she said.  
  
Nottingham threw her a raised eyebrow look.  
  
"Okay, okay, so maybe that won't fly, Mr. Walking Lethal Weapon. I'll think of something!" Sara shrugged, unable to keep from smiling.  
  
"If the shooter turns out to be Joaquin Medina, that is a fairly good indication that he and his brother successfully make the pickup of the drug shipment sometime between now and when he goes after Joey. Otherwise, why would he run the risk of possibly being caught committing a murder?"  
  
"Yeah, like psychopaths always use good judgment when whacking someone. Obviously, somebody tips him off about where Joey will be after school tomorrow. But who would know that Joey was heading to the rehab facility to visit Amanda?" Sara murmured.  
  
"By now, I am certain that her whereabouts and the circumstances surrounding them are common knowledge at their school," Ian said.  
  
"Yeah, and you saw the vision. Joey was over the moon that he was finally being allowed to see Amanda. Maybe one of his classmates is a runner and overheard him tell one of his friends that he was gonna go visit her in rehab after school."  
  
"A runner?"  
  
"Yeah. Rather than risk being caught holding real weight, dealers usually carry as little product as possible. That's why Amanda didn't get all that much smack off Paco. The dealers commonly use neighborhood kids to carry the drugs and money for them. When they start to run low, they give the kid some of their take and send them back to their supplier to bring them more product. Maybe one of the kids at Joey's school is a runner for Angel Medina, and he's the one who gives him up. Word is out on the street that Joey and Amanda are wanted by Angel, and it's a small world."  
  
"I can see why you are such a good detective, my Lady," Ian told her, impressed.  
  
"Thanks, but I still can't come up with a way of stopping Angel and Joaquin without ruining the DEA's and the narcotics task force's sting. Much as I hate to admit it, we might be forced to wait and see how things play out on the docks. In the vision, Joey said I was supposed to escort him to the rehab center, but that I was delayed. Basically, I just have to make sure that I'm not delayed, right? If I'm there to protect him, Joaquin won't have the chance to kill him," Sara said, noticing that they had almost reached the 11th Precinct.  
  
"Joseph is not going to come to any harm. I promise you, Sara," Nottingham said firmly. "Have you come up with a plausible explanation for my accompanying you into the precinct?"  
  
"Yeah. Just follow my lead. I promise you that your badass rep isn't going to be tarnished," she smirked.  
  
"I was not worried about that, my Lady," Ian said, parking the SUV. "I merely wished to avoid raising suspicion about your presence here at this hour."  
  
"Don't sweat it, Nottingham," she said, getting out of the car.  
  
They walked into the 11th Precinct together.  
  
"Hey, Mac! I thought you were on the afternoon shift?" Sara greeted the portly, middle-aged man behind the front desk. She could sense the curious stares she and Nottingham were drawing from the few uniformed officers that were present.  
  
"Hey, Pez. Yeah, I covered for Hoolihan for a few nights this week so me and the wife and kids can go visit her relatives in Florida for the holiday. Thanksgiving with the in-laws! I oughta have my head examined, right?" he said.  
  
"Yeah, right. Mac, this is a friend of mine. Ian Nottingham, Tommy McGwire." The two men shook hands. "Nottingham owns an apartment building in Washington Heights, and he's been getting complaints from his tenants that there's been a lot of gang activity in the building lately. You know, the usual shit: graffiti, harassment, fights. I'm gonna show him some gang tags to see if he can identify which gang is responsible. We won't be long," Sara said.  
  
"Sure thing, Pez. Any plans for the holiday?" Mac asked.  
  
"Joe and Marie Siri have invited us, uh, me over for dinner next Thursday," Sara said, flushing at her slipup.  
  
"Ah, I see," the desk sergeant said knowingly, eyeing her red face. "Tell Joe and Marie that Kathy and me say hello, would you? Nice to meetcha, Nottingham."  
  
"Same here, Sergeant McGwire," Ian said, wondering what had caused the Wielder's obvious embarrassment.  
  
"Shit!" Sara fumed as she took the stairs two at a time. "By tomorrow, everybody in this place is gonna be talking about my new boyfriend!"  
  
"What new boyfriend?" Ian demanded, frowning.  
  
Sara shot him a furious glare. "You! Or didn't you hear me stupidly admit that my godparents have invited us both over for Thanksgiving dinner?"  
  
"Yes, I heard you, but I do not see how Sergeant McGwire could infer from that minor slip of the tongue that we are seeing each other. Or how he could possibly disseminate such misinformation so swiftly," Ian said truthfully.  
  
"Well, obviously you don't know Mac. He's worse than a bunch of old ladies about spreading gossip. You have no idea how fast word spreads in a stationhouse. I'll bet he's on the phone with his wife right now. Then she'll call somebody else's wife, and so forth and so on! Before you know it, word will get back to Marie! Dammit!"  
  
"If you wish, my Lady, I will go back and clear up the misunderstanding," Nottingham offered, pausing as they reached the top of the stairs and half turning as if to go back down.  
  
"NO!" Sara said vehemently, grabbing his coat sleeve. "That would only make things worse. The damage has been done." She sighed. "C'mon. My office is down here. You can wait in there while I go round up those mug shot books."  
  
"And what should I say if Sergeant McGwire stops by to inquire when the wedding date is?" Ian asked, totally straight-faced.  
  
Sara stopped in her tracks, blinking at him in surprise, then a grin appeared on her tired face. "You have a wicked streak, Nottingham, you know that?"  
  
He flashed even, white teeth at her in an all-too-brief smile that caused her pulse rate to speed up markedly. "It seems you bring out that side of me, my Lady."  
  
"Yeah, right. I'll be back in a sec. Do you want a cup of tea or coffee? The coffee sucks, but it's hot. And there's no peppermint tea, only Lipton."  
  
"Tea would be nice," he said, taking a seat in her guest chair and rubbing a gloved hand over his flushed face wearily.  
  
"Are you feeling okay, Nottingham?" Sara asked worriedly.  
  
"I am just fatigued and a little warm," he admitted. "Otherwise, I am fine." He took off his hat and scarf, and shrugged out of his coat.  
  
"No, you're not fine. As soon as we're done here, I'm gonna buy a digital thermometer and start checking your temp regularly. If your fever gets higher than 103, you're going straight home and doing whatever you have to do to get that antidote from Irons. Are we clear?" she said. When he didn't respond, just lowered his eyes to the floor, Sara put her fingers under his chin and forced him to meet her fierce gaze. "Nottingham, are we clear?" she asked him again.  
  
"Yes, my Lady," he muttered.  
  
"Good. Tea and mug shots coming up."  
  
More to come. Feedback? Thanks to all of you for your encouraging words! Much appreciated, as always. 


	22. Chapter 23

A Family Affair  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 23.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham waited until Sara Pezzini had disappeared down the 11th's Precinct's deserted second-floor hallway before he called Kenneth Irons. His master was undoubtedly aware of the fact that the Wielder had been sent another vision and would therefore be expecting his call. Uncertain how long he had before Sara returned, Ian got right to the point when Irons answered after the second ring.  
  
"Plans have changed, Master. The Wielder received a vision that showed her nephew being shot to death by one of Angel Medina's henchman, possibly his brother, Joaquin, tomorrow afternoon. The vision also revealed that tonight's drug bust fails to catch Medina. I believe Detective Pezzini no longer intends to stake out the docks for fear that it is her presence there that causes the operation to fail in its objective." Ian neglected to mention that he, too, had been shown the vision. Although Irons knew that Nottingham's bond with the Wielder allowed him to sense when she received visions, much as his own did, Ian was fairly certain his master didn't know the Witchblade occasionally permitted him to see the actual vision.  
  
"I see," Irons said after a moment's hesitation. "Where is the Wielder now, Ian?"  
  
"She has returned to the 11th Precinct. In the vision, she noticed that the shooter possessed two distinct physical characteristics, and she is checking Joaquin Medina's file in the criminal database in the hopes of finding that his description matches them."  
  
"What do you think Sara will do if it does match?"  
  
"Attempt to apprehend Joaquin before he can murder her nephew."  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
"Perhaps, but only if she can figure out a way to do so without ruining the DEA's and narcotics squad's drug bust."  
  
"Hmmm. Stay close to the Wielder, Ian. And keep me updated."  
  
"Yes, sir." Ian hung up and pocketed his phone. Unconsciously, he stroked the spot beneath his chin where his Lady's fingers had touched him. He was glad that she had not perceived the shudder that had gone through his body at the all-too-brief, electric contact. Idly, he wondered what her bare skin would feel like against his and then hastily thought about something else when he felt his pulse begin to race and his rate of respiration increase.  
  
Sara returned a minute later with several mug shot books and the promised cup of tea.  
  
"Here you go, Nottingham," she said, handing him the tea and dropping the books onto her desk. "I included a book of gang graffiti tags, too, just in case Mac decides to come snooping around."  
  
"Good thinking," Ian said. He sipped his tea before taking up one of the mug shot books and beginning to look through it.  
  
Sara sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. She was exhausted, running on nothing but adrenaline and espresso, but she knew she wouldn't truly be able to rest until she was sure Joey was safe. Pulling up the criminal offender database, she entered Joaquin Medina's name. Moments later, his photo and extensive file came up.  
  
"Bingo! Joaquin's a lefty and has the same exact Cobra tattoo as Angel's on his left forearm. Plus, the brothers were both born in Colombia and didn't move to the U.S. until they were almost in their teens. You said you thought the shooter had a Colombian accent, right? I'd say that pretty much proves Joaquin's the one who attempts to kill Joey tomorrow. Apparently, members of a gang called the Cali Cobras all sport the same tattoo. It says here big brother Angel founded the gang nearly 20 years ago, when he was just 14! I'm gonna check to see if the gang is still active and, if so, where. With any luck, I'll find the names of some current members, and I can cross-check them to see if any of them are students at Joey's school."  
  
"With the logic being that if you can prevent Joey's classmate from passing his whereabouts along to Angel and Joaquin, you can keep Joey safe," Ian said.  
  
"Yeah, that's my thinking. But I still can't help wonder what causes tonight's drug bust on the docks to fail. Since Joaquin is still free to go gunning for Joey tomorrow afternoon, that would seem to indicate that he and his brother somehow avoid getting caught making their pickup. Which would mean the info the inside guy had was wrong."  
  
"Or maybe the timing was just off," Nottingham said slowly.  
  
"How do you mean?" Sara asked.  
  
"You said the undercover detective thought Angel was due to make a pickup within 24 hours. That was nearly 24 hours ago. However, a blizzard is supposedly bearing down on the metropolitan area, right?"  
  
"I'm still holding out hope that the forecasters are wrong, but yeah."  
  
"So, what if the shipment has simply been delayed by the bad weather? What if it was supposed to arrive tonight, but gets held up because of the weather in another part of the country and does not arrive until sometime tomorrow morning or even later?"  
  
"But it's supposed to be arriving by sea. Besides, the storm is coming from the west, so that shouldn't hold the Dominican Star up," Sara pointed out.  
  
"What if it that information was incorrect and the shipment is coming by land? That would explain why the operation on the docks fails and also why Joaquin is still a free man tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Okay, say you're right, and the product was never arriving by sea. Surely, once the DEA and narcotics realize their mistake, they'll just tail Angel and Joaquin until they do make the pickup and then move on them."  
  
"That is assuming they still have Angel and/or Joaquin under surveillance. Criminals have been known to give their tails the slip."  
  
"True. And from what I've heard, Angel is pretty slippery. However, I highly doubt the DEA or narcotics would be willing to share the fact that they've lost track of Angel and Joaquin with us. How do we find out? Better yet, how do we find the brothers if they have managed to lose their tail? Damn! It seems like we're back to square one!" Sara said, throwing up her hands in frustration.  
  
"We could always ask felon No. 11862-5961 if he knows where Angel is," Ian said.  
  
"Felon number who?"  
  
Ian lifted up the mug shot book he'd been perusing and showed her a picture of a familiar-looking young man. "You know him better as Broken Arm."  
  
Sara chuckled gleefully. "Let's just see if there's a current address for him." She typed the man's ID number into her computer. "His real name's Alonzo Brown. Oh, and what do you know? Not only is there a current address listed, it says here that Mr. Brown is a member in good standing of the Cali Cobras gang! That right arm you broke happens to have a lovely and realistic rendering of a cobra beneath its brand-new cast, Nottingham. I say we go pay Alonzo a visit tonight. Especially since my search for current gang members that attend Stuyvesant High School came up empty."  
  
"I agree," Nottingham said, rising. "But first I must avail myself of the facilities."  
  
"Down the hall on the right. Good idea, actually," she said, writing the address down on a slip of paper and pocketing it. "If Alonzo isn't home, we might find ourselves driving around looking for him and Angel for hours."  
  
"Or you might find yourself sitting in the car while I put my ninja skills to good use, which, as you pointed out earlier, I so love to do," Ian said, picking up his coat.  
  
Sara grinned up at him. "Any excuse at all to skulk, eh Nottingham?"  
  
"Well, you must admit I am extremely good at it."  
  
"I'll say. Comes with the deadly assassin-slash-stalker territory, I guess," Sara said, failing to notice the black-clad man's wince. She logged off her computer and then gathered up the mug shot and gang graffiti books. "I'm just gonna drop these off where they belong and then go use the ladies room. I'll meet you downstairs. On second thought, wait for me up here. I don't wanna give Mac the chance to pump you for info about our alleged relationship," she said, grabbing her coat off its hook.  
  
"Heaven forbid," Ian said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  
  
Sara frowned at him and started to say something, then just shook her head and marched away.  
  
Sighing, Ian downed the rest of his tea and then followed her out of the office she shared with her partner. He seemed to have a distressing knack for destroying the camaraderie that had lately begun to characterize their interactions. Although Ian knew it was irrational to feel this way, her obvious aversion to anyone even remotely considering the possibility of them being a couple bothered him -- a lot. The desk sergeant did not know who Nottingham was and neither did any of her coworkers. So, why were mere rumors of a relationship so upsetting to Sara?  
  
'Because she does know who you are, Ian,' he answered himself. 'You said it yourself: She is a police officer. You are an assassin. She could never allow herself to fall in love with you.'  
  
For a moment, Ian allowed his weary, feverish body to sag beneath the weight of this cold, harsh truth before resolutely straightening his posture. He had a job to do and that was to protect the Bladewielder. He simply could not afford to let his unrequited feelings get in the way of his duty to her. As he washed his hands, he avoided looking in the mirror above the sink for fear that the evidence of his aching heart was plain for all to see.  
  
Sara put the mug shot and gang tag books back where they belonged and then went into the ladies room. Her mind kept chewing over Nottingham's last pithy comment, or, more accurately, the pissy tone of voice he'd said it in.  
  
'What's his problem?' she wondered. 'If I didn't know better, I'd think he was annoyed that I didn't want to give Mac more ammunition for the rumor mill. But that can't be possible. What's he care if I don't want people thinking we're a couple? He said it himself: He kills people for a living, while I put murderers away for a living. A relationship would never work. Would it?' Sara blinked in surprise. 'What the hell? Did I actually just consider going out with Nottingham? No, that's insane. Get a hold of yourself, Pezzini! He's your psycho freak stalker, remember? You'll never be that hard up.'  
  
Sara washed her hands, glancing at her reflection in the mirror above the sink and groaning as she realized that she'd been walking around with raccoon eyes ever since she'd left her godparents' house. She washed her pale, tired face, using a soapy paper towel to wipe off the smudged mascara, and then carefully reapplied her lip gloss, telling herself she didn't want her lips to become chapped from the cold.  
  
'What if Nottingham weren't Kenneth Irons pet assassin?' she suddenly found herself thinking. 'What if he were the legitimate head of security of some rich guy who wasn't obsessed with the Witchblade?' Sara shook her head at the pointlessness of this exercise. 'But he does work for Irons. And nothing can change that.' Sighing, she put her coat on and left the bathroom.  
  
Nottingham stood at the top of the stairs in his habitual parade rest stance. Sara's heart sank as she saw that he had reverted to his old, expressionless self. This tall, unsmiling man with the shuttered, downcast eyes was suddenly like a stranger to her. Until that very moment, she hadn't realized how much she had grown to like the teasing, almost relaxed persona that he had begun to display of late. Not only had she been stunned to discover that he actually possessed a sense of humor, but she'd come to realize that it was very similar to her own (minus the world weary cynicism and biting sarcasm). And it had been undeniably gratifying to know that it was she who had brought it out in him. Somehow, she knew that life with Kenneth Irons rarely permitted him to express this side of himself, if at all.  
  
They descended to the first floor of the precinct in silence. But just before they rounded the corner and came into view of the front desk, Sara impulsively stepped closer to Nottingham and slipped her bare left hand into his gloved right hand.  
  
"Goodnight, Mac. Have a nice holiday at the in-laws!" she said to the desk sergeant as they passed his station.  
  
"Yeah, happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Pezzini," Mac said wryly, eyeing their joined hands with obvious interest. "Any luck identifying that gang tag, Mr. Nottingham?"  
  
"Yes, the book Sara showed me was most helpful. I will pass the information along to the local anti-crime unit," Ian replied. "Goodnight, Sergeant McGwire."  
  
"Goodnight, kids."  
  
They left the precinct and headed in the direction of where the SUV was parked, still holding hands.  
  
After scanning the dark street intently, Ian glanced at Sara and saw that a little smile was on her lips. "Why did you do that?" he finally asked quietly.  
  
"In for a penny, in for a pound," she said, shrugging. "Besides, it was worth it for the look on Mac's face." She smirked. "And on yours."  
  
"I do not believe my expression changed at all, Sara."  
  
"Are you kidding? Your jaw practically hit the floor, Nottingham."  
  
"It did not."  
  
"Did so."  
  
Abruptly, he stopped walking and brought her hand up to his mouth, brushing it with his warm lips. "Thank you, my Lady," he murmured, intense hazel eyes meeting hers.  
  
"F-for what?" Sara stuttered, heart suddenly racing.  
  
"For salving my pride."  
  
"Oh. Sure. Any time." Flustered, she glanced around the dark street self-consciously. "Um, think I could have my hand back now?" she said when he continued to stand there holding it close to his heart in both of his, gazing at her with those big, expressive eyes of his.  
  
With obvious reluctance, he released her hand and they continued on to his car.  
  
"Before we head to Mr. Brown's home, we need to stop at the drugstore a couple of blocks from here. It's open 24 hours," Sara told Ian once she was seated in the passenger seat.  
  
A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows. "Very well," he said, starting the car.  
  
Ian had hoped that she had forgotten about this particular errand. He did not want to be forced to return to the estate before they had located Angel and Joaquin Medina because of his ill health. A surge of resentment toward Kenneth Irons for placing him in this predicament filled Ian, surprising him with its intensity.  
  
Moments later, they pulled up in front of the store. "You may as well take this opportunity to purchase the Tampax that you will soon need," Ian told her absently.  
  
Sara froze in the act of opening the car door and threw him a disbelieving look. "How the hell do you know that I'll need -- ? Never mind. I don't even wanna know," she muttered, getting out.  
  
"Your desk calendar at work, Sara," he said softly before she could close the door. "You wrote 'Get Tampax' on it."  
  
"Gee, how very observant of you," she said acidly. "Thanks ever so much for the reminder, Nottingham." She slammed the car door with more force than necessary and then turned and marched into the drugstore.  
  
Ian winced. "Smooth move, Nottingham," he muttered aloud, watching her stomp away. "Now she thinks she has no privacy whatsoever." Sighing, he leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to meditate. The buzz of fever in his brain was growing louder, preventing him from concentrating. He wondered if it was beginning to cloud his judgment, which was already suspect where Sara Pezzini was concerned. Why else would he be risking his master's wrath by continuing to aid her in her quest to keep her nephew from coming to harm?  
  
These were uncharted waters, and Ian felt more than slightly out of his depth. As this latest misstep proved, the alliance between the Wielder and himself was tentative at best. He could not shake the feeling that as soon as their objective was achieved, Sara would once again look upon him with dislike and suspicion. It was obvious that his master's keen interest in her made her feel threatened, and Ian's unwelcome demonstration of his knowledge of the most intimate aspects of her life had reinforced this sentiment.  
  
'Do I have any secrets from Nottingham or Irons?' Sara wondered as she wandered the drugstore's brightly lit aisles in search of a digital thermometer. 'Probably not.' Grudgingly, she grabbed a box of tampons when she came upon them. She also bought a couple of bottles of water.  
  
Nottingham's head was leaning against the headrest and his eyes were closed when she returned to the car. He looked so weary, Sara felt guilty about disturbing him but he straightened up and unlocked the door before she could even raise her hand to knock on the glass.  
  
"I got us some water," she said, putting the bottles in the cupholders. Taking out the thermometer, Sara removed it from its packaging. She pressed the button, waited the requisite amount of time for the device to become ready for use, and then turned to Ian, who allowed her to place it under his tongue.  
  
Sara stared at his mouth, noting that his lips were full and nicely shaped, and that his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. She remembered how soft his beard had felt when she had lifted his chin earlier.  
  
Fast double-beeps sounded, and Sara removed the thermometer, frowning as she read the tiny LED screen. "102.4. I'm gonna check it again in an hour. I'm serious about what I said earlier, Nottingham, even if we haven't found Angel and Joaquin Medina by then."  
  
"Yes, my Lady," he said sullenly.  
  
Sara pulled out the piece of paper on which she'd written Alonzo Brown's address. "Okay, here's where we're headed," she said, handing it to him.  
  
Nottingham glanced at it, gave it back to her, and started the car.  
  
Putting the thermometer in her coat pocket, Sara placed the empty packaging back into the bag containing her other purchase then flung it into the back seat, hoping -- most likely in vain -- that Nottingham hadn't noticed that she'd taken his advice. She was fast learning that very little escaped the assassin's notice.  
  
"What's your plan for when we get to Alonzo's place?" she asked him.  
  
"Are you certain you want to hear it? It involves unlawful activities such as breaking and entering."  
  
"What else is new?" Sara murmured, staring at his profile moodily.  
  
"If Mr. Brown is not home, I will canvas the neighborhood for him. I will report back to you in an hour, whether or not I have located him. Is this agreeable?"  
  
"Yeah, except for the part where I sit in the car and twiddle my thumbs while you get to have all the fun."  
  
"Please give me your cell phone."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I am going to program my number into it. That way, we can stay in touch."  
  
"Might as well, since you already have my number on speed dial."  
  
One of his brief but brilliant smiles made an appearance. "Yes, I do indeed."  
  
"Which reminds me, we gotta work on your phone etiquette, Nottingham. Kenny might not be big on goodbyes, but I'm kinda partial to them." When they stopped at a red light, Sara handed her cell phone to him.  
  
Ian quickly programmed his number into it. "Please feel free to call me at any hour of the day or night," he said, handing the phone back to her. "I am always at your service, my Lady."  
  
"Why thank you, Nottingham. Rest assured I will call you if you're not back in an hour once we reach Alonzo's nabe." She glanced out the window. "Which, surprise, surprise, happens to be in Alphabet City."  
  
Moments later, Ian found a parking space some blocks from the address Sara had given him.  
  
"Nottingham, I don't do waiting very well. How about you call me when you find him, so I can be there when you question him?" Sara said.  
  
Ian shook his head. "Not a good idea. As I pointed out earlier, you tend to attract attention to yourself in this kind of neighborhood. And although they did not believe you when you claimed to be a police officer the other night, if one of your assailants happens to see you entering Mr. Brown's building, they might alert Angel to the fact. We simply cannot take that chance. Just sit tight, my Lady. I will return in an hour."  
  
Reluctantly, Sara conceded that he was right. "Okay, but, please, try to keep the physical damage to a minimum. And, Nottingham, be careful."  
  
"You do not have to worry about me, Sara. I am a shadow," he flashed her that wolfish grin again, "until I am not." Shrugging out of his overcoat, he reached under his seat and pulled out the harness containing his holstered Glocks, putting it on over his black silk dress shirt.  
  
"Does this mean you actually faced down my godmother unarmed? You're a braver man than I thought, Nottingham," Sara cracked.  
  
"I was not exactly weaponless. I never am," Ian admitted. "However, she is a formidable opponent, and I felt quite defenseless in the face of her inquisition."  
  
"Yeah, I had to rescue your ass for a change," Sara grinned.  
  
"I never did thank you for that, did I? Perhaps because, at the time, I was too busy running away," he said with an answering grin. "See you in an hour, my Lady. Hopefully, with good news."  
  
"Yeah, hopefully," Sara sighed. She watched him cross the street, blinking as one moment he was visible under the light of a street lamp and the next he had disappeared. Just like that.  
  
"I am a shadow," he had said. "Until I am not." Once again, the shiver that gripped Sara's body had very little to do with the cold air that had briefly invaded the car's warm interior.  
  
  
  
More to come. Feed me feedback! Please? 


	23. Chapter 24

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Wish I did, but I don't. I'm just playing around. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 24.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham ghosted along the rooftops of the buildings on the block that Alonzo Brown lived on. He had spent nearly 30 minutes of his allotted hour watching the front entrance of the building his quarry resided in, a dilapidated five-story tenement that was nearly identical to practically every other building on the street. Five people had entered and exited the structure during that period, none of whom were the man he was looking for. Finally, Ian had decided it was time to make a move. He was an extremely patient man, and were it not for the time constraint placed upon him by Sara Pezzini, he would have easily spent another hour or two on the rooftop across from Alonzo Brown's building, watching and waiting. Years of practice tracking down people at Kenneth Irons' behest had taught him that sometimes it paid to be patient, that sooner or later the person or persons you were looking for would come to you. But tonight, Nottingham did not have that luxury. He had promised the Wielder he would return in an hour and he knew she would hold him to his word.  
  
Effortlessly, he leapt from the roof of one building to another, until he reached the one he wanted. Climbing onto the fire escape, he descended silently to the third floor. Unfortunately, the shades were drawn on the windows that looked into Alonzo Brown's apartment, completely blocking the view of the interior. However, a light was on in the room that Ian had identified as the bedroom from the glimpse he'd gotten into the apartment directly above this one, and his acute hearing picked up the sound of someone moving around inside the room. Swiftly, he returned to the roof.  
  
The locked and alarmed rooftop door presented no problem at all to him, and within seconds he was inside the apartment building. He paused, allowing his vision to adjust to the dimness of the stairwell. A mélange of cooking odors wafted up to him, underlaid by the smell of refuse, cigarette smoke, incense, and marijuana. Somewhere, perhaps two or three floors below, a baby was crying. Closer by, Ian heard the sounds of a couple arguing in Spanish, televisions, loud rap music, a woman singing in the shower, children laughing and yelling as they roughhoused, and a man's voice repeatedly asking them to stop it and go to sleep. Silently, he descended the stairs, pausing on each landing to listen for the sound of any doors opening, until he reached the third floor. He moved down the dimly lit hallway and stopped in front of Alonzo Brown's apartment. He listened and heard the television playing but nothing else. After cursorily examining the three locks on the door, Ian knelt and removed his lock-picking tools from his coat pocket and set about unlocking the door. He paused after picking each lock and listened, still hearing only the TV. Rising to his feet, he eased open the door and slipped inside. He glided soundlessly down a long hallway, passing the dark kitchen. The flickering light of the television and a small table lamp were the only illumination in the living room, which was empty.  
  
A sweating can of soda and a plate containing a half-eaten sandwich and some potato chips sat on the coffee table. Ian heard a hissing sound and the rustle of clothing coming from the direction of the bedroom. Silently, he moved down the short hallway that led to the bedroom, passing a bathroom on his left and a closet on his right.  
  
Alonzo Brown, a cigarette hanging from his lips, was standing at an ironing board ironing the shirt belonging to the security guard uniform pants he wore. His back was to the bedroom door, and for a full minute Ian stood in the doorway watching him perform this mundane task, which he did awkwardly with his left hand because of the bulky plaster cast encasing his right arm and hand. Then Alonzo must have sensed Ian's presence, for he suddenly looked over his shoulder directly at him.  
  
The man's eyes widened in horrified recognition and his mouth dropped open, causing his cigarette to fall from his lips. But it never reached the shirt on the ironing board because, moving with inhuman speed, Ian caught it in midair, somehow without even dislodging the half inch of ash on the tip.  
  
"Awww, shit!" Alonzo howled in terror. Still clutching the steaming iron in his hand, he stumbled backward a couple of steps, fetching up against an armoire.  
  
"Put the iron down, Mr. Brown," Ian said softly, "and nobody will get hurt."  
  
Wild-eyed, the young man stared at Nottingham and then at the iron in his hand and then back at Ian. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" he said, his voice quavering.  
  
"No. Put it down, and we will talk."  
  
"Just talk?"  
  
"That depends," Ian said. Turning, he tipped the ash on the end of the cigarette into the ashtray that sat on a nearby bureau, and then examined the glowing tip with satisfaction before pinning the other man with a malevolent stare.  
  
Alonzo slowly straightened up and moved to the ironing board, setting the hot iron down on it. He gazed at Ian fearfully, unconsciously cradling his plaster-covered right arm in his left.  
  
"Now, Mr. Brown, you are going to tell me where I can find Angel Medina and his brother Joaquin."  
  
"Why you wanna know where they at?"  
  
"That is my business," Ian replied, noting the way the man's eyes darted toward his bed. "I do not want to hurt you, Mr. Brown, but I will if I have to. Save me the trouble and yourself the agony, and tell me where they are."  
  
"You don't know how crazy those muthafuckers are, dawg," Alonzo said, shaking his head. "They've killed niggas just for lookin' at them wrong." His eyes flicked toward the bed again.  
  
"It so happens I do know how mentally unstable the Medina brothers are, Mr. Brown. But if you tell me what I want to know, I can promise you that after tonight, you will never have to worry about them again." Ian took a step closer to the other man, causing him to flinch. "I am fast losing patience with you, Mr. Brown. Tell me what I want to know. Now, or I will put this cigarette out in your eye."  
  
"Fuck that!" Alonzo yelled, and dove for his bed, or, more accurately, for the nightstand next to it.  
  
Calmly, Ian watched as he scrabbled like mad in the drawer of the nightstand and came up on the other side of the bed holding a gun in his none-too-steady left hand. He pointed it at Nottingham.  
  
"Yeah, that's right, I got me a piece, and I'll blow your muthafuckin' head off with it if you don't get the hell out of my house right now, muthafucker!" Alonzo said, breathing heavily.  
  
Ian shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot do that until you have told me what I need to know, Mr. Brown." He turned and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.  
  
"Are you crazy, dawg? I said I will shoot your goddamn ass!"  
  
"Now, you and I both know that gun is not loaded, Alonzo," Ian said quietly.  
  
The other man blinked, then scowled. "It sure as fuck is."  
  
Ian turned and picked up a framed photograph of a smiling, gap-toothed boy with sparkling, mischievous eyes. "Is this your son?"  
  
"What the fuck? Put the goddamned picture down and get the fuck outta my house before I shoot you, you fuckin' psycho!" Alonzo shouted, but the shaking in his hand worsened.  
  
"I would guess from the toys scattered around the living room and the clothes in that laundry basket over there that he stays here often. How old is he, seven? Eight?"  
  
"Nigga, you must be crazy, standing there talkin' 'bout my boy while I got a gun on you!"  
  
"It is wise of you to keep a weapon on hand, Alonzo, just in case. This is a rough neighborhood. But I think you love your son too much to keep a loaded gun in an unlocked drawer where he could easily find it," Ian said quietly. "I know another father who loves his son very much. That boy will die unless I can find Angel Medina and his brother Joaquin. I myself have not known this boy for very long, but I have already grown very fond of him and would hate to see such a promising life cut short. More importantly, someone I care for very much loves the boy, and his death would destroy her. I cannot let that happen." He gestured toward the uniform on the ironing board.  
  
"I see that you have a job as a security guard, which is quite a feat considering that you have a criminal record."  
  
"That was a long time ago. Just petty, juvenile shit. I ain't no convicted felon," the young man said sullenly.  
  
"However, your job tells me that you do not work exclusively for Angel Medina, and that you are trying to legitimately provide for your son instead of relying on ill-gotten gains, which I imagine would be very easy to do," Ian observed.  
  
"I don't want Corey to make the same mistakes I did," Alonzo said fiercely. "Joining a gang and shit. I'm a lookout for Angel for a few hours before I go to work at midnight. That's all I do. I don't sell no drugs or nothing," he said defensively, lowering the gun. "I know it ain't right, but you can't say no when Angel asks you do to something. He really is a crazy muthafucker. And his brother's even crazier."  
  
"And when you accosted my Lady?"  
  
"Awww, we wuz just tryin' to scare her. I swear. We thought she was some crazy crackhead ho looking to get high. You have to be kinda crazy to come down to this neighborhood alone at that time of night, especially looking as bootylicious as she do. No disrespect, yo," Alonzo added quickly at the dark look Ian gave him.  
  
"So, tell me, Alonzo, do you know where Angel's new drug den is?"  
  
"Yeah. It's an abandoned ice factory on 7th Street between Avenue C and D. Word is he's expecting a major shipment soon 'cause my niggas say he's running low on product."  
  
"Do you know where Angel and Joaquin are now?"  
  
"No. Last time I spoke to Angel wuz a couple of days ago, after he up and moved outta that place your bit--, uh, lady wuz snooping around in. He don't like nobody keeping tabs on him when he about to go pick up a shipment."  
  
"How does he contact you? By cell phone?"  
  
"Yeah. I don't got his cell phone number. He always calls me. But I do got his pager number on speed dial. It's how I warn him if I spot trouble coming."  
  
"I would appreciate it if you would give me that number. It might come in very handy," Ian paused as he felt his cell phone vibrate. "Please excuse me a moment, Mr. Brown." He took out the phone and looked at the display before opening it. "Sara."  
  
Pause.  
  
"I am speaking to him now."  
  
Pause.  
  
"I know it has almost been an hour."  
  
Pause.  
  
"No, I have not broken any more of his bones. Really, we are just talking."  
  
Pause.  
  
"I will return shortly, my Lady." Ian started to put the phone away but a squawk that was audible even to Alonzo came from it. Nottingham hurriedly put it to his ear again.  
  
"Are you all right, Sara? I heard you yell," he asked anxiously.  
  
Pause.  
  
Ian closed his eyes tight for a moment. "My apologies. Good. Bye. Sara." He hung up and then heaved a weary sigh.  
  
Alonzo Brown actually smirked. "Shorty got you on a short leash, hunh, dawg?"  
  
"You have no idea," Ian said ruefully. He turned and put the picture of Corey Brown back on top of the bureau. "You have been most helpful, Mr. Brown. If the information you have provided is correct, I promise you there will be no repercussions because of what you told me here tonight. I am going to give you my cell phone number. I want you to call me if Angel calls requesting that you perform lookout duties for him. Will you do that?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess so. What are you, some kind of FBI agent or something?"  
  
"Or something. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?"  
  
"Yeah." He reached into the nightstand and pulled out a pad and pen, handing them to Ian.  
  
"Here's my cell phone number. Now, write down Angel's beeper number if you would. Oh, and send your emergency room bill to the address I wrote next to my number. It will be taken care of."  
  
"Yeah, right," the other man said doubtfully, but then he met Ian's eyes. "You for real, ain't you?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Brown, I am. I regret having fractured your arm, but I thought you were reaching for a weapon and I could not take the chance that my Lady might come to harm." Ian put the slip of paper with Angel's beeper number on it into the inside pocket of his overcoat.  
  
"I feel you. Well," he glanced at the paper Ian had given him, "Mr. Nottingham, I gotta leave for work soon and I still haven't finished my ironing. I'll call you if Angel calls me."  
  
"Please do. And, Mr. Brown, I am sure I do not have to tell you not to mention our meeting to Angel should he call, do I?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Good, because I would be most displeased if he were to learn that I am looking for him and his brother." Ian nodded toward the ashtray. "Smoking is very bad for your health, Mr. Brown. You really ought to quit."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, my shorty keeps tellin' me that," Alonzo said nervously, glancing at the almost full ashtray.  
  
When he looked up again, Ian Nottingham was gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Thanks for the feedback everyone! Keep it coming. It is most inspirational! 


	24. Chapter 25

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them! Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 25.  
  
  
  
Sara Pezzini took a swig from her bottle of water and glanced at the dashboard clock for perhaps the 50th time since Ian Nottingham had left her sitting in his SUV. She groaned as she saw that barely 20 minutes had elapsed. It felt more like two hours.  
  
Squirming around in her seat restlessly, Sara decided to turn on the car radio. She was curious to see what kind of music Nottingham listened to. Then she remembered that he'd said the car was brand new, meaning it was highly unlikely that he'd had the chance to preset his favorite radio stations, if in fact he had any. It felt weird to think of her stalker as someone who enjoyed something as normal as listening to music. Try as she might, Sara just could not picture Nottingham bobbing his head to a slamming beat as he drove along. She decided that, given his upbringing, he probably went for classical music or perhaps jazz. For lack of anything better to do, she turned on the radio anyway. Not surprisingly, it was tuned to an all news format AM station. Just as she was about to switch to an FM station, Sara heard the announcer say the weather forecast was coming up next. Five minutes later, she sighed heavily as the meteorologist confirmed her worst fears: New York City was bracing for as much as 30 inches of snow, beginning late Thursday night or early Friday morning. The freakishly early winter storm had already been dubbed the "Thanksgiving Blizzard," despite the fact that the holiday was still a week away. Forlornly, Sara thought of her beloved Buell motorcycle and the deprivation of the long winter months stretching ahead of her. She switched to the FM band and pressed the scan button, punching it again when she heard one of her favorite songs, Led Zeppelin's "Thank You."  
  
~ If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me. ~  
  
Once again, Sara's thoughts turned to Ian Nottingham, and she wondered if he had located Alonzo Brown yet. Her mind shied away from thinking about the method by which he was obtaining the information they wanted from the hapless thug. The memory of the predatory grin the black- clad assassin had flashed her as he had assured her that the young man would never see or hear him coming caused another chill to run down her spine. For some strange reason, these stark reminders of how very lethal Nottingham could be continually took Sara by surprise.  
  
~ Little drops of rain, whisper of the pain, tears of loves lost in the days gone by. Our love is strong, with you there is no wrong, together we shall go until we die. ~  
  
Sara had read the pitifully brief file a contact of Jake McCartey's at the FBI had helpfully provided on Kenneth Irons' bodyguard and henchman, at the end of which had been the dire designation "extremely dangerous." And earlier today at Talismaniac, Gabriel had commented that the former Black Dragon was not like normal human beings, and Nottingham had agreed with him. Sara had witnessed some of his supernatural attributes firsthand, like that effortless leap from the third-story window of Angel Medina's former drug den and the blinding speed with which he had taken down Alonzo Brown. And then there was his super-acute hearing and ability to see in near darkness. Still, she could not shake the conviction that Nottingham posed no danger to her.  
  
~ And so today, my world it smiles. Your hand in mine, we walk the miles. Thanks to you, it will be done, for you to me are the only one. ~  
  
However, what did absolutely terrify her was her growing suspicion that Nottingham was in love with her. For a stone-cold killer, the man possessed extraordinarily expressive eyes -- when he actually allowed you to glimpse them, that was. Earlier that evening, as they stood outside the 11th Precinct and he had thanked her for salving his pride, Sara had done everything in her power to avoid looking into those beautiful eyes, for fear of what she would see there.  
  
'Whoa, Nelly! Did you just call your stalker's eyes beautiful, Pezzini?' she thought, shifting uneasily in her seat. 'Yeah, you sure did. I guess familiarity breeds insanity. The sooner we catch the bad guys and can go our separate ways, the better!' she told herself. Except for the fact that Nottingham would still be shadowing her every move. But only if the poison his control freak boss had injected him with didn't end up killing him, she thought soberly. On the radio, Robert Plant half sang, half whispered the last two lines of the song.  
  
~ If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. Mountains crumble to the sea, there would still be you and me. ~  
  
Sara glanced at the dashboard clock again, and saw that another quarter of an hour had passed while she'd been sitting there lost in thought. Turning off the radio, she took out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial number that Nottingham had labeled simply "Ian."  
  
"Sara."  
  
Her stomach did a weird flip-flop as he pronounced her name in that unique way he had. "Uh, yeah, it's me," she said inanely, suddenly regretting her impatient and impulsive decision to call him. "So, did you find Alonzo?"  
  
"I am speaking to him now."  
  
"Well, your hour is almost up." 'Way to go, stating the obvious, Pez,' she thought with disgust.  
  
"I know it has almost been an hour," he replied, with the merest hint of what might have been irritation in his voice.  
  
"Nottingham, please tell me you haven't broken any more of Alonzo's bones. I'm serious. You may not have a conscience, but I do."  
  
"No, I have not broken any more of his bones. Really, we are just talking."  
  
"Well, okay then. You have a little more than 15 minutes left. If you aren't back by then, I'm gonna come up there."  
  
"I will return shortly, my Lady," he said.  
  
Sara realized that he was about to hang up. "NOTTINGHAM!" she screeched.  
  
He instantly came back on the line. "Are you all right, Sara? I heard you yell," he asked, anxiety evident in his voice.  
  
"Don't you dare hang up again without saying goodbye. You know how I hate that," she growled.  
  
There was a pregnant pause. "My apologies. Good. Bye. Sara." He hung up.  
  
Sara stared at the phone in her hand as if it were a live grenade. "You've really gone off the deep end now, Pezzini," she muttered aloud. "Get help before it's too late. Who am I kidding? It's way past too late. You're a nutcase. Bitching at your stalker 'cause he didn't say goodbye before hanging up. Hello? HE'S YOUR STALKER!!! And now you're talking to yourself. Yep, you're certifiable. Better make that reservation for a room with padded walls."  
  
She glared accusingly at the admittedly striking but deceptively innocuous-looking bracelet on her wrist. "This is all your fault! I just know it," she said through her teeth. "I must be acting this way because he's my Protector, whatever the hell that means."  
  
Suddenly, she decided she couldn't wait any longer to find out exactly what it entailed. Fifteen minutes would have to suffice. She dialed Gabriel Bowman's number.  
  
"Talismaniac. Nothing's too out there to find here."  
  
"Gabriel, it's me," Sara said, smiling at the manner in which the young businessman had answered the phone despite the late hour.  
  
"Oh, hey, Chief! What's up? How's Nottingham?"  
  
"Funny you should ask that -- well, actually, come to think of it, it's not funny at all -- but he's the reason I'm calling," Sara said, rubbing the back of her neck tiredly.  
  
"Please do not tell me he's needs a place to crash for the night."  
  
"No, no, it's nothing like that. I don't have a lot of time before he gets back -- yeah, we're still hanging out. It's a long story; remind me to tell you it sometime -- but I really, really need to know exactly what it means that he's my Protector," Sara told him. "Right now."  
  
"Oh, hey, Chief, that's not a subject that can be summed up in just a few minutes."  
  
"Give it your best shot, Gabriel. You've got roughly ten."  
  
"Hmmm. Well, let's see. Witchblade legend has it that down through the ages, every Bladewielder has had a Protector, who is always male and always within a year or two of the Wielder's age. This Protector was born to do just what his title indicates: protect the Wielder from her enemies, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. Ian Nottingham is your Protector."  
  
"Well, see? That wasn't so bad," Sara glanced out the tinted windows to see if she could spot Nottingham approaching, but saw only the dark, deserted street.  
  
"Oh, there's more to it than that, Chief. Much more."  
  
"Well, go on."  
  
"Most of this is just hearsay and rumor, because, much as I hate to tell you this, most Protectors don't live long enough to write their memoirs. In fact, I have yet to find any evidence that any Protector has ever outlived his Wielder."  
  
"Gee, that's encouraging."  
  
"Sorry, but as you might imagine, it's not the easiest of jobs. In ancient times, the mortality rate was much higher. Factor in the hordes of enemies constantly trying to kill the Wielder in order to get their hands on the Witchblade, and, well, you get the picture. Anyway, legend has it that the Protector shares a psychic bond with both the Witchblade and its Wielder. Apparently, he's born with the bond to the Blade, but his connection to the Wielder lies dormant until the Witchblade chooses her."  
  
"So, the Witchblade recognizes this Protector whenever he's around," Sara said slowly, thinking of the warm swirl the bracelet imparted to her wrist whenever Nottingham was nearby. And then suddenly she realized that she wasn't just recalling it; she was feeling it. Her eyes darted around the dark street, but didn't see any sign of Kenneth Irons' bodyguard. However, she knew he was close and getting closer.  
  
"Yeah, but there's something else I should tell you about this bond, Sara," Gabriel said, "something I don't think you're gonna like very much."  
  
"We don't have much time left, Gabriel, so just spit it out."  
  
"Well, for one thing, it allegedly allows the Protector to know where the Wielder is at all times."  
  
"I could have told you that," Sara said. "But why do I get the feeling that's not the thing I won't like?"  
  
"Legend also has it that the bond gives the Wielder's Protector a telepathic and/or empathic link to her if she is a True Wielder."  
  
The swirly warmth on her wrist intensified, but Sara still saw no sign of Nottingham. "Are you saying he gets to read my mind but I don't get to read his? That's, like, really, really disturbing, Gabriel, not to mention freakin' unfair."  
  
"Yeah, I knew you'd feel that way. But I also came across some history that suggested the telepathic link could, in fact, be mutual in, um, certain circumstances."  
  
"Like what?" Sara asked cautiously, unconsciously bracing herself.  
  
"Like if the Wielder took her Protector as her mate," Gabriel blurted out.  
  
"WHAT?" Sara shrieked, and then she flinched as she realized that Ian Nottingham was standing next to the driver-side door of the car, patiently waiting for her to unlock it. Of course, she hadn't seen him approach the vehicle even though she'd been keeping an eye out for him. "Uh, I gotta go, Gabriel," she muttered, hanging up.  
  
Pocketing her phone, she leaned over and opened the car door, immediately averting her furiously blushing face.  
  
Nottingham gracefully folded his tall frame into the car. "You did not say goodbye, Sara," he observed, eyeing her.  
  
"Don't you know it's not polite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations!" she snarled at him, still unable to look him in the face.  
  
Ian blinked, taken aback by her hostility. "I did not eavesdrop on your conversation with Mr. Bowman, Sara. I was only in time to overhear the rather abrupt end of it."  
  
"Well, still." Scowling, she took the thermometer out of her coat pocket.  
  
"Have I done something to upset you, my Lady?" he asked hesitantly. "I returned within the allotted hour, did I not?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Open up." Sara felt a pang of guilt as she saw that the kicked-puppy had shown up. Sighing, she slid the device under his tongue. "I'm sorry, Nottingham. It's just that Gabriel told me something that kinda freaked me out right before you came back. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."  
  
"Thass awight, mah Wady," he mumbled around the thermometer, bringing a small smile to her tired face.  
  
Sara noticed that his febrile eyes were hollow with exhaustion and that his lips had become chapped from the cold. Absently, she removed some of the clear lip gloss from her own lips and smoothed it onto his.  
  
At her touch, Nottingham stiffened, eyes widening, and a strangled groan came from deep within his chest.  
  
Sara froze, her fingertip still touching Ian's lower lip, only then realizing what she had done without thinking. On her wrist, the Witchblade began to pulse wildly, its deep fiery glow mirroring the blushes that abruptly reddened both of their faces. Fast double beeps shattered the shocked silence that had blanketed the SUV's interior.  
  
Sara removed her finger from Nottingham's lip and then took the thermometer from his mouth, reaching up to turn on the overhead light with a visibly shaking hand so that she could read the miniscule LED screen.  
  
"102.8," Sara said huskily. She cleared her throat. "At the rate your fever's rising, it's gonna top 106 by tomorrow night, Nottingham. You need to get that antidote A.S.A.P."  
  
"But it has not reached 103 yet," Ian said hoarsely, barely able to form coherent sentences. "You said I did not have to return to the estate unless it rose higher than 103. So, we can still go check out the abandoned ice factory that Alonzo Brown says is Angel's new place of business. It is not far from here. Unfortunately, Mr. Brown claimed not to know the exact whereabouts of Angel or his brother. However, I am hopeful of discovering that they are both at the new location."  
  
Sara stared at him in consternation for several long moments. "Okay, you can go check it out. But I'm gonna go nuts if I have to sit in this car again while you case the joint. Take me home first. There's nothing we can do even if we discover that Angel really has set up shop there. Not until he makes the pickup of that drug shipment. Drop me off at my place, then come back down here and check it out. Call me and let me know what, if anything, you find. Then go home and get that antidote. Okay?"  
  
"As you wish, my Lady," Ian said quietly, unhappy that she was so obviously eager to part company with him.  
  
They made the trip to Tribeca in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.  
  
Nottingham double-parked the SUV in front of Sara's building and escorted her to her door, performing another security sweep in near-total darkness before allowing her inside the loft.  
  
"I'll be waiting for your call, Nottingham. Please be careful. I mean, I know you're a shadow and all, but still," Sara said, walking him to the door. "Angel and Joaquin are bad news."  
  
"I will be careful, my Lady." He hesitated before turning to leave, screwing up his courage. "Sara, may I ask you a question?"  
  
Sara tensed, but nodded. "Sure. Doesn't mean I'll answer, but go ahead, knock yourself out."  
  
Ian kept his eyes fixed on the floor, very afraid of what he would see in her beautiful eyes if he were to look up. "Did the upsetting information that Mr. Bowman shared with you have to do with me?"  
  
"Yes, it did," she acknowledged.  
  
Ian bowed his bare head, the loose tendrils of hair falling forward to hide his expression, but not before she saw a stark look of something very close to despair on his haggard face. "Thank you for being honest, my Lady," he said quietly and turned to go.  
  
"Your lips," Sara blurted out, suddenly loathe to have him leave.  
  
He turned back, lifting shadowed hazel eyes to meet hers briefly. "What about them?"  
  
"They were chapped," she said softly. "I couldn't have my Protector running around with chapped lips, could I?"  
  
One of those tiny almost-smiles turned up the corners of those lips. "No, I suppose not." He gave her one of his courtly bows. "I will call you in a little while, my Lady." And turning, he left.  
  
Sara went to the window overlooking the street and watched as he got into his SUV. It wasn't until he had driven off that she realized that she had forgotten to grab her tampons from the back seat.  
  
  
  
More to come. I look forward to, read, and deeply appreciate all of my feedback. Keep it coming! And thanks! 


	25. Chapter 26

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Author's note: I was torn about whether to post a rating change for this chapter owing to a little, ahem, anatomical descriptiveness, but then I decided not to. My apologies in advance to anyone who is offended by mentions of woodies (and I don't mean wood-paneled station wagons :) ).  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 26.  
  
  
  
When he reached the double-parked SUV, Ian Nottingham glanced up at Sara Pezzini's window and saw her silhouetted there, looking down at him. He unlocked the driver-side door and slid behind the wheel, only then allowing himself to wilt from exhaustion, but just for a moment before starting the car and driving away. The emotional roller coaster he had just gotten off had left him with a bone-deep weariness not to mention an unsettling swelling in his pants.  
  
After leaving Alonzo Brown's apartment, Ian had timed it so that he would return to his vehicle and Sara with precisely a minute to spare in the agreed-upon hour. He had taken to the rooftops once again, following a circuitous route back to the vicinity of the SUV, on the off-chance that he was being followed. When it came into view, he had pulled out his trusty scope and spied Sara sitting in the passenger seat, talking on her cell phone. This had proven to be more than enough of a distraction to enable him to approach the vehicle unseen, although it had been a near thing once when something had suddenly caused her to look out the window. From where he'd been standing in a shadowy alleyway right across from the car, Ian had seen her alertly scan the dark street. Luckily, her sharp eyes had skimmed right over him, failing to detect his presence there. He was only a few feet from the SUV when he heard her scream "WHAT?" into the phone at a decibel level that had probably caused the person at the other end of the line to wince in pain. Ian had felt a keen sense of satisfaction at succeeding in taking her unawares. But it had swiftly faded when he noticed the way she flinched when she finally became aware of his presence. The hasty manner in which she ended her conversation with Gabriel Bowman before unlocking the car door for him had set off warning bells.  
  
Sara's agitation had practically hit Ian over the head once he got behind the wheel, and he had eyed her heightened color askance. Seeking to ease the tension clogging the intimate confines of the vehicle, Ian had teasingly observed that she had failed to say goodbye before hanging up, earning a harsh rebuke from the Wielder for his trouble. She had accused him of eavesdropping on her conversation, and her hostility and reluctance to look at him had led Ian to the distressing conclusion that the tidbit Mr. Bowman had just shared with her had in all likelihood been about him, or, more specifically, his superhuman abilities. Belatedly, he realized that his abrupt reappearance had not helped matters at all.  
  
Ian was convinced that if Sara found out just how radically his genetic enhancements set him apart from normal human beings, she would once again look at him like he was some kind of freak. Fearful of glimpsing revulsion in her beautiful eyes, he had hesitantly asked her if he had done something to upset her. But then she had done an about-face, apologizing for snapping at him and even going so far as to admit that Mr. Bowman's revelation had unsettled her. Ian had even managed to bring a smile to her pale, tired face by comically responding to her apology around the thermometer in his mouth.  
  
And then she had rocked his world by first touching her own lips and then inexplicably caressing his with her fingertip. All the blood that had previously been flowing to his brain had been instantly redirected to pool hotly in his loins, and Ian had been unable to hold back a groan at his body's emphatic response to her touch. The 20 seconds or so her finger rested on his lower lip only made him grow harder, and desire for her thrummed through his entire body. It had taken every ounce of his considerable self-control not to snatch the thermometer from his mouth, grab Sara in a rough embrace, and kiss her as every fiber of his being screamed at him to do. The beeping of the blasted thermometer broke the spell, but Ian had been devoutly thankful that his loose wool trousers and long overcoat hid his erection from her.  
  
As if nothing had happened, Sara read the latest temperature reading, once again pointing out that he needed the antidote to the poison sooner rather than later. Barely conscious of what he was saying, Ian had babbled something about his fever having not yet reached the threshold he'd reluctantly agreed would automatically precipitate his return to Kenneth Irons' estate. Somehow, he had managed to cajole her into allowing him to go check out the abandoned ice factory that Alonzo Brown claimed was Angel Medina's new drug den. But he'd been crushingly disappointed when Sara had requested that he take her home first. It had become painfully apparent that she was eager to part ways with him.  
  
During the drive back to her loft, Ian had been hyper-aware of the woman next to him as well as the prominent bulge in his pants. After escorting the Wielder to her door and performing a security sweep of the apartment, he had worked up the courage to ask her if, as he suspected, the upsetting information that Gabriel Bowman had shared with her had been about him. Despair filled him when she had promptly confirmed that it had been, and with a heavy heart, Ian had turned to leave. But, miraculously, Sara had stopped him, explaining that touching his lips had been a solicitous rather than a provocative gesture. And although this was not what he wanted to hear, Ian had nonetheless felt his spirits lift upon realizing that she didn't find him repulsive as he had feared.  
  
Shifting uncomfortably in the driver's seat, Ian fervently hoped his arousal would subside by the time he reached the location where Mr. Brown had said Angel Medina's drug den could be found. However, whenever he let himself remember the feel of Sara's fingertip stroking his lips, desire would surge through his feverish body anew, and he would begin throbbing in concert with his pounding heartbeat. Suddenly parched, he reached for the bottle of water Sara had so thoughtfully purchased for him, then noticed that she had drunk some of hers. He picked up her half-empty bottle, opened it, and lightly ran his tongue around the rim, imagining he could taste her, which only served to enflame him further. Desperate for a distraction, Ian turned on the car radio with the vague intention of listening to the latest weather report, and was startled to hear rock music blare from it. He started to turn the dial, but a new, much less raucous song started, and the lyrics caught his attention.  
  
~ Wanna tell you 'bout the girl I love, my, she looks so fine.  
  
And she's the only one that I been dreaming of, maybe someday she will be all mine.  
  
I wanna tell her that I love her so, I thrill with her every touch.  
  
I need to tell her she's the only one I really love.  
  
I got a woman wanna ball all day,  
  
I got a woman she won't be true, no,  
  
I got a woman stay drunk all the time,  
  
I said I got a little woman and she won't be true! ~  
  
Ian was struck by the mixture of raw anguish and need in the singer's voice. The words the man half-sang, half-screamed resonated with him, seeming to describe his feelings for Sara almost perfectly. He listened to the entire song, hoping the disc jockey would name both the artist and the title. When it ended, the DJ obligingly said "That was Led Zeppelin and 'Hey Hey What Can I Do.'" Ian immediately resolved to go out and buy the CD that featured this song. Normally, he never listened to this type of music, having found that its requisite loudness offended his acute hearing and that the harmonics of the guitars typically featured prominently often gave him a blistering headache after even minimal exposure. But this particular group's sound appealed to him for some reason. Plus, he realized that Sara had been listening to this radio station, and he wanted to see her reaction when Led Zeppelin came out of the car's speakers.  
  
Abruptly, he became aware of the fact that he was thinking in terms of Sara riding along with him again sometime in the future. Now that her motorcycle had been garaged for the winter, she would be forced to rely on mass transit to get to and from her job. Ian hated the very thought of her riding the subway without his protection. He decided that he would offer to drive her to and from work each day. Since his master was apparently intent on having her every move monitored for the foreseeable future, Ian figured he might as well put his vehicle at Sara's disposal, thereby ensuring that her commute was safe and that he was doing his job efficiently. Of course, Kenneth Irons would never approve of this arrangement, which made it all the more appealing to Ian.  
  
By the time he parked the SUV several blocks from the building that he was intent on investigating, Ian was relieved to discover that his erection had subsided, leaving behind a deep-seated, dull ache in his loins and a dissatisfied restlessness, which was exacerbated by his soaring fever. He suddenly felt the urge to inflict a tremendous amount of violence on Angel and Joaquin Medina or whoever happened to be handy, recognizing this for what it was: the need to relieve his frustration through physical activity. It took an effort for him to remember that he was only here to discover if Alonzo Brown was telling the truth about this place being Angel's new base of operations, and that even if he discovered the Medina brothers here he could not move to neutralize them until after they had picked up the new shipment of narcotics. Even then, he ruefully acknowledged, he would probably be relegated to watching from a distance as Sara, the DEA, and the 11th Precinct's narcotics squad took down the murderous drug lord and his brother. He did not doubt for an instant that the Wielder would be in the thick of the action, especially if she were instrumental in providing the whereabouts of the brothers and the drugs if it turned out that they had in fact managed to lose their tail.  
  
Once again, he took to the rooftops, carefully examining the streets below for any sign of a surveillance unit but finding none. Nor did he detect any evidence of one in the abandoned warehouse directly across the street from the former ice factory, although he did spot a bundled up man who might have been a lookout standing in the shadows of what had been the warehouse's loading dock. Mindful of the woman no doubt waiting impatiently for his call, Ian only spent 20 minutes watching the boarded up entrance of the factory before leaving his vantage point, circling around to the back of the decrepit structure, and finding a way inside via a gaping second-story window.  
  
He heard voices and detected the faint hum of a small generator -- gasoline- powered from the smell of the exhaust -- almost as soon as he entered the cavernous building, and he followed the sounds to what had been the factory's basement. After he silently descended the two flights in near total darkness, he saw the glow of lights, and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust before slipping down the to the basement level.  
  
Four men sat around a table playing cards in one of the bunker-like rooms where the blocks of ice the factory had once produced had been stored prior to being delivered. As they had been designed to do, the thick concrete walls concentrated the cold, quickly leaching away heat. The meager warmth given off by two small space heaters did little to dispel the pervasive chill, and the men's breath frosted as they spoke. Two of the men appeared to be Caucasian, one was Latino, and one was African-American. On another smaller table next to them were packets of money and a small pile of drugs in tiny plastic bags. One of the white men pushed back from the table.  
  
"I'm gonna go take a leak and have a smoke," he said, rising. "I'll be back in a few."  
  
The three other men nodded at him, continuing their card game.  
  
Ian slipped deeper into the shadows beneath the stairwell, and the man obliviously passed within a few feet of him and headed up the stairs. Noiselessly, Nottingham followed him.  
  
The man took out a flashlight and made his way to the second floor, crossing to the boarded up windows that faced the street. He pushed aside a loose board, glancing out at the empty street, and then cautiously trained his flashlight on the stairwell, apparently to make sure he hadn't been followed. He never saw or heard the black-clad man who had emerged from the stairwell seconds behind him and immediately blended into the shadows not far from where he stood at the window.  
  
Keeping his eyes on the stairwell, the man took out a pack of cigarettes, but along with a cigarette, which he lit but did not smoke, he withdrew a tiny walky-talky unit. He pressed the send button.  
  
"This is Detective Tommy Fuller, do you read?" he said in a low voice. "Fuck!" he softly cursed in frustration when, after several attempts, he still received no response.  
  
"Perhaps you would care to use my cell phone, Detective," Ian said softly, stepping out of the shadows.  
  
The man jumped violently, pulling a gun from his waistband and training it on Nottingham.  
  
"Jesus H. Christ! You nearly gave me a fuckin' heart attack. Who the fuck are you?" he hissed.  
  
"Someone who wants the same thing you do: to bring down Angel and Joaquin Medina," Ian told him, never taking his eyes off the other man's face.  
  
"Are you on the job?" the sandy-haired man asked, eyeing Ian's black-on- black garb suspiciously.  
  
"Not exactly. How long have you been out of touch with your surveillance unit?"  
  
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded again. His gun did not waver from where it was pointed at Ian's heart.  
  
"We do not have a lot of time before your friends downstairs start to get suspicious, Detective Fuller. Suffice it to say that you can trust me. I am working closely with someone in the 11th Precinct. Now, I suggest you use my cell phone to contact your C.O. before somebody comes looking for you."  
  
The younger man stared at him in indecision for several long moments and then shook his head. "I can't use a cell phone. Those guys downstairs have one of those scanners that can pick up nearby cell phone conversations. They're constantly monitoring it and would know right away if I tried to use one. That's why we were forced to use these fucking walky-talkies. They've been watching me like a hawk ever since we moved here two nights ago. The only time they let me out of their sight is when I go to the bathroom. Angel has had somebody watching my every move ever since I witnessed him kill one of his dealers. We somehow gave my surveillance unit the slip after we ditched the old place. Before I got cut off, I did manage to let them know we were on the move and that I thought Angel would be making a pickup within the next 24 to 48 hours. But I'm pretty sure my squad and the DEA don't know about this place yet. This walky-talky only has a distance of about a mile, and I must be out of range. Every couple of hours, I try reaching them, but no luck so far."  
  
"Do you know where Angel and his brother are right now?"  
  
"No. I haven't seen either of them since last night, when Angel came to pick up yesterday's take. And I don't expect him or Joaquin to show up tonight, because I'm pretty sure they've already gone to get the new shipment, which I gathered was delayed by bad weather, meaning it's probably coming by land or maybe by air."  
  
"Yesterday, the DEA received a tip that a Dominican-flagged freighter due into port at midnight tonight was smuggling a large shipment of narcotics," Ian informed the undercover detective. "Your precinct's narcotics squad and the DEA have set up a drug bust operation on the docks in the hopes of catching the Medina brothers. However, based on what you have just told me, I think they have been misinformed. Do you have any idea where Angel and Joaquin have really gone to make the pickup?"  
  
"Not a clue. Angel is beyond paranoid when it comes to that. And he won't come back here if he suspects something isn't right. He's already got a lookout sitting on this place, and we're supposed to stay here all night, even if the last of the product runs out, which it almost has," he told Ian, tossing the cigarette on the floor and grounding it out beneath his sneaker. "We've been bedding down in sleeping bags at night, but I don't think I've slept a wink in nearly 48 hours it's so fucking cold down there. Plus, I don't mind telling you I'm scared as hell Angel or his psychopath of a brother is gonna kill me. I don't think either of them really trusts me."  
  
"I will get word to your C.O. about your location, Detective, so that you can reestablish contact with your surveillance unit," Ian promised him. "But I will also make certain they know not to approach the building until they get confirmation that Angel and his brother have returned with the shipment. Just hold on until then."  
  
"If something happens to me, will you do something for me, man?" the young undercover detective asked anxiously. Putting his gun back in his waistband, he extracted a wedding band from his jeans pocket. "Here," he carefully placed it in Ian's gloved hand, "make sure my wife, Janine Fuller, gets this, will ya?"  
  
Nottingham took it from him. "Nothing is going to happen to you, Detective Fuller, but I will gladly hold on to this for you until the Medina brothers are in custody and you can break cover."  
  
"Okay, but just in case, promise me you'll make sure she gets it."  
  
"I promise. Your surveillance unit should be back within range shortly. I suggest you try to contact them again in two hours, if possible."  
  
"Thanks . . . ?"  
  
"Ian."  
  
"Thanks, Ian."  
  
"You're welcome, Detective." Ian's sharp ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming from the basement. "We are about to have company," he warned the other man.  
  
A full minute later, Tommy Fuller heard the footsteps, too, and glanced toward the stairwell. When he looked back, the tall, black-clad man had vanished as if he'd never been there.  
  
"Hey, Tommy! Did you get lost?" one of his companions called, starting up the stairs to the second floor.  
  
"No," the young detective said, hurrying to meet the other man. "Turns out I had to take a shit."  
  
****  
  
As soon as Nottingham drove off, Sara Pezzini took her cell phone out of her coat pocket and placed it on her coffee table. Then she made herself a mug of peppermint tea in a vain effort to calm her nerves, and dialed Gabriel Bowman's number on her land line.  
  
"Talismaniac. We're fast coming up on the witching hour, so this better be good."  
  
"Uh, sorry to call so late, Gabriel," Sara said, pacing restlessly.  
  
"Hey, Chief, that's okay. I'm not even in my PJs yet. In fact, I don't even own PJs."  
  
"Um, thanks for sharing. Hey, I apologize for hanging up on you earlier. Nottingham came back, and, well, that last little tidbit you shared with me kind of, well, it seriously freaked me out."  
  
"Yeah, I sort of gathered that from your reaction. I tried to warn you."  
  
"Yeah, well, I don't think anything but a sedative -- the kind you take down elephants with -- could have prepared me for that bombshell. We have a little bit more time to talk now. That is, if you're up to it," she added quickly, feeling a little guilty about how late she was calling him, although she knew he was a night owl. He certainly sounded wide awake.  
  
"I'm up for it, but you sound wiped, Chief."  
  
"Yeah, it's been a rather trying few days."  
  
Sara gave her friend the condensed version of what had transpired since Joey Siri, Jr. had shown up with a gun in that alley next to the 11th Precinct three days ago.  
  
"Whoa! That's deep," Gabriel murmured, when she had brought him up to date on the sordid tale. "But the Medina Bros. are no match for Team Pezzini and Nottingham!"  
  
"You think so?" Sara said, smiling with pleasure for some reason.  
  
"No contest, Chief. They have no idea what they're up against."  
  
"What exactly are they up against, Gabriel?" Sara inquired. "I mean, yeah, me and Nottingham are working together on this one, but where do we go from here?"  
  
"Well, I told you what Witchblade lore suggests is possible if --"  
  
"It's not gonna happen, Gabriel," Sara interrupted him flatly. "For one thing, he's Irons' hired killer and I'm a homicide detective. How would it look if I hooked up with a suspected murderer? Plus, his boss has some kind of weird control over him that I don't even want to begin to try and figure out."  
  
"Well, Nottingham has only ever been a suspect in those murders, right? He's never been convicted of any of them."  
  
"Yeah, only because his filthy rich boss man keeps getting him off the hook. Besides, that's splitting hairs and you know it, Gabriel. No, I just can't get past the fact that the guy's a professional assassin. He said it himself. It would never work."  
  
"Oh, so you already hashed out the pros and cons of a relationship, hunh?"  
  
"No! It's just that when we left my godparents' house after dinner, we had this discussion -- "  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up a minute! You took Nottingham to your godparents' house for dinner?"  
  
"Well, yeah."  
  
"If you don't mind me asking, what the hell possessed you to do that?"  
  
"That's just it!" Sara sighed in frustration, flopping onto her sofa. "I don't understand why I've been acting the way I have been around him. I think it's because of the Witchblade, and the fact that it recognizes him as my Protector. I don't know how else to explain it. I just feel -- and I know this is going to sound really, really crazy -- protective of him."  
  
"Well, actually, it kind of makes sense," Gabriel surprised her by saying.  
  
"How so? I mean, the man is a walking lethal weapon, for cryin' out loud! Why should I feel I have to protect him? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"  
  
"Well, he is very sick right now. That could have something to do with it. Besides, I have a feeling that the Witchblade is looking out for its own best interests."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, it knows that the odds of you, its chosen Wielder, surviving to a ripe old age vastly improve if you have a Protector looking out for you. It recognizes Nottingham as your Protector, so it's nudging you to try and help him out so that he can do what he was born to do: Protect you."  
  
"Huh. That does make a twisted kind of sense. So, Gabriel, you said that you'd found evidence that past Wielders and their Protectors had," she cleared her throat self-consciously, "uh, hooked up. Can you give me any examples?"  
  
"Marc Antony and Cleopatra, for one," he said instantly.  
  
"Kind of an obscure coupling there, buddy," Sara said wryly. "Got any others?"  
  
"Looks like she wasn't the only Queen of Denial. Get it? Denial? The Nile?" Gabriel chuckled at his own cleverness, then noticed the utter silence on the other end of the phone line.  
  
"What are you implying, Gabriel?" Sara finally said coolly.  
  
"Forget it. Bad joke," he muttered. "Anyway, it was also rumored that Joan of Arc took her Protector as her lover, too."  
  
"Wow. So, not only did the poor girl hear the voice of God, or the Witchblade, or both, she also had to deal with hearing her Protector's voice in her head."  
  
"If the rumors of this telepathic link are to be believed, I guess so."  
  
"I'm sensing a theme here. Both of those Wielders died awfully young and badly. This telepathy bond thing didn't seem to make much of a difference as to how long they lived. Maybe it's a good thing Nottingham makes my skin crawl."  
  
"Does he, Sara?"  
  
"Yes, he does, Gabriel," she said firmly. 'Liar!' a little voice in her head whispered, and Sara glanced down at the Witchblade suspiciously, but the stone was dark.  
  
"I also came across a very interesting reference to the Witchblade having the ability to heal its Wielder's Protector," Gabriel said after an awkward moment of silence.  
  
"Hmmm. That could come in handy."  
  
"Yeah, but it indicates that it only works if the bond between the Wielder and her Protector is very, very strong."  
  
"We're talking about the sex thing again, aren't we?"  
  
"I never mentioned the 'S' word, Miss It's a Good Thing He Makes My Skin Crawl," Gabriel said smugly. "That's obviously where your mind's at."  
  
"All righty then, I think I've had about as much of Witchblade History 101 as I can take for one day, thank you very much. I'll touch base with you tomorrow, Gabriel, and let you know how everything turns out, okay?"  
  
"Sure thing, Chief. Oh, and I'm glad you decided not to go down to the docks tonight after all."  
  
"Yeah, well, just wish me luck keeping my nephew from getting killed, hunh?"  
  
"You don't need luck, Sara: you've got the Witchblade and your Protector on your side." he said. "Try and get some rest, okay? Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight, Gabriel."  
  
Sara hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed since Nottingham had left. Sipping at her now cold peppermint tea, she got up and started pacing restlessly despite her exhaustion.  
  
'Do not call him again, Pezzini,' she kept telling herself. 'Resist the temptation. He will call any second. Just be patient.'  
  
When her cell phone rang a moment later, Sara flew across the room. "Hello?" she said breathlessly.  
  
"Hello, Sara."  
  
Her stomach flip-flopped again. "Hey, Nottingham," she said, then realized she was just standing there holding the phone and smiling idiotically. "Oh, um, so, what did you find?"  
  
"The abandoned ice factory on 7th Street between Avenues C and D is indeed Angel's new drug den. Unfortunately, neither he nor his brother were there. However, the undercover narcotics detective is there and I managed to speak with him. His name is Tommy Fuller, and he was cut off from his surveillance unit when Angel Medina moved his base of operations to the new location two nights ago. He is under close watch by Angel's men, and he needs you to inform his C.O. where he is. However, he stressed to me that the surveillance team must leave a very wide buffer zone around the ice factory, or else Angel will not return there with the new drug shipment."  
  
"I'll call my guy in narcotics as soon as I get off the phone with you. Was Fuller able to tell you where Angel and Joaquin are?"  
  
"No. But as I had surmised, he indicated that the drug shipment had been delayed by the bad weather heading this way. However, provided Angel does not get tipped off that the new location has been compromised, we now know where both he and his brother will be in due course. Alonzo Brown has promised to notify me if Angel calls him requesting that he perform lookout duties. I spotted a lookout when I was there, and this man will eventually need to be relieved. Apparently, Angel still trusts Mr. Brown with the job. I also have in my possession the beeper number Mr. Brown calls when he needs to warn Angel of approaching danger."  
  
"Gee, Nottingham, seems like you've covered all the bases," Sara said, genuinely impressed.  
  
"On the contrary, there are far too many variables over which I have no control in this particular situation. However, I am hopeful that the DEA and the narcotics squad will have better success today in apprehending the Medina brothers than they did yesterday."  
  
"Yesterday? Oh, that's right, it's after midnight. By now, they'll have probably figured out that the operation on the docks is a failure," Sara murmured, glancing at the clock. "You did good, Nottingham. Now, go home and do whatever you have to do to get that antidote. I'll see you tomorrow, uh, later this morning."  
  
"Lady Sara?"  
  
"Yes?  
  
"Will you allow me the honor of driving you to work this morning?"  
  
"Sure. Why not? It beats riding the freakin' subway." 'And I can snag my unmentionables from his back seat while I'm at it,' Sara thought.  
  
"I will see you at 08:30. Sleep well, my Lady."  
  
"Thanks, you too."  
  
"Goodbye, Sara."  
  
Sara could hear the smile in his voice, and it warmed her low in her belly and brought an answering smile to her lips. "Goodbye, Nottingham."  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Thanks for all of the feedback. It's much appreciated and I hope it keeps coming! 


	26. Chapter 27

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 27.  
  
  
  
Kenneth Irons sat before the roaring fire in his study, sipping brandy from a snifter, and brooding.  
  
He had not been pleased to hear that Sara Pezzini had decided not to stake out the docks after all owing to the premonitory vision the Witchblade had sent her. Kenneth hated it when his plans went awry, even though this latest development merely delayed the inevitable confrontation between Ian Nottingham and the vengeance-minded force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries.  
  
According to Dr. Immo, Ian still had at least 24 hours or so to receive the life-saving antidote to the poison in his system. The good doctor was very anxious to examine the ailing assassin as soon as he returned to the estate. He had babbled on incessantly about how the unpredictability of the toxin in combination with young Nottingham's genetic enhancements might spell disaster. Immo had come very close to pleading with Irons to let him administer the antidote as soon as Ian came home for the night. But Kenneth had already resolved to deny it to his bodyguard and henchman until after he had battled the Russians. He wanted this ordeal to be a true test of young Nottingham's resolve and endurance.  
  
Earlier, when he had sensed the vision the Witchblade gave the Wielder, Kenneth had braced himself for the painful echo of Sara's anger that he was regularly punished with whenever Ian confronted the hot- tempered homicide detective. But there hadn't been the slightest twinge of discomfort, and this had both puzzled and disturbed him. Lately, he had begun to wonder what Ian did to so quickly mollify the Wielder when he did approach her. Within the space of just two days, Irons had gone from dreading his bodyguard's encounters with the Wielder because of the agonizing clarity with which the circular scars on his right hand invariably transmitted her ire to him to feeling nothing at all when the two of them did chance to meet. In fact, it if weren't for Ian's progress reports, Kenneth would never know that their paths had crossed.  
  
With a growing sense of alarm, Kenneth speculated that perhaps, by some miracle, young Nottingham had succeeded where he himself had failed: in winning Sara's trust. What other explanation could there be for the complete absence of the hostility and anger on the beautiful homicide detective's part that had previously characterized their interactions? Bad enough as that possibility was, the only other alternative was unthinkable, which was that the Ian had somehow managed to befriend the Wielder. The very thought made Kenneth's blood pressure begin to rise, and in a fit of pique, he threw the brandy snifter into the fire, the alcohol making the flames leap higher and burn an eerie blue.  
  
A short while later, only the slightest whisper of sound alerted Kenneth Irons to the fact that Ian Nottingham had entered the study. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly 1:00 a.m.  
  
"Ah, Ian, you have returned home at last," Irons said, without looking at him.  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Did it turn out that Joaquin Medina is the shooter?"  
  
"Yes, it did, sir."  
  
"I take it Sara Pezzini was unsuccessful in locating him or his brother."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"By any chance, did she share her plan of action for later today with you?"  
  
"No, sir. However, I assume she is going to do everything in her power to keep her nephew from coming to harm at Joaquin Medina's hands."  
  
"Undoubtedly. Tell me, Ian, why do you think the drug bust operation on the docks failed despite the fact that the Wielder was not there?"  
  
After a moment's hesitation, the assassin said "I think it is because it was never the true pickup location in the first place."  
  
"And what made you decide that?"  
  
Ian shrugged. "Just a hunch, sir."  
  
Irons finally turned his head to look at the younger man, who was standing in his customary spot a few feet behind his chair in his habitual parade rest stance. "Come closer to the fire and let me have a look at you, Ian."  
  
Obediently, Nottingham moved to stand in front of Kenneth's chair. Cold, light-blue eyes studied his appearance critically.  
  
"You look exhausted and feverish," Irons finally said.  
  
"I am both, Master."  
  
"Ah, I think I begin to understand," Irons said slowly, a smile that did not reach his eyes turning up the corners of his lips. Gracefully, he got to his feet, picking up the silver-handled walking stick that had been leaning against his chair.  
  
Ian instantly tensed, surreptitiously eyeing the cane that the older man had begun twirling idly in his pale, elegant hands.  
  
Kenneth began to slowly circle his bodyguard. "Ian, has the Wielder taken notice of your ill health?" he asked him.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"What was her reaction to it?"  
  
"She suggested that I take cold medication." Ian had to fight the urge to turn his head in order to keep the other man in sight as he moved behind him.  
  
"And how did you respond to her suggestion?"  
  
"I told her that I did not have a cold."  
  
"I see. And how did she react to that?"  
  
"She accused me of being in denial about my condition."  
  
"What were your outward symptoms?"  
  
Irons came back into his field of vision once again, still twirling the cane. The heat of the fire, combined with that of his fever, was starting to make Ian very uncomfortable. "Coughing, sneezing, and runny nose."  
  
"Do you suppose she felt sorry for you, Ian?"  
  
"Perhaps." Greatly daring, he asked "Why are you asking me about this, Master?"  
  
Irons threw him a sharp look. "Did you ever wonder how it was that I always knew you had approached Sara Pezzini, Ian?" he asked, ignoring the question.  
  
"I assumed your bond with the Witchblade alerted you to that fact." Ian unclasped his hands from behind his back and let them dangle at his sides as his employer once again circled behind him.  
  
"You assumed correctly. The scar on my right hand would flare up most painfully with the force of her anger and resentment whenever you confronted her. Until recently, that is." Irons had stopped moving to stand directly behind Ian. "Tell me, Ian, why is it that Sara no longer becomes angry when you accost her?"  
  
"I do not know," Ian lied.  
  
"I think you do," Irons said.  
  
Ian heard the whistling sound the cane made as it cut through the air. Without thinking, he whirled, put up a gloved hand, and caught the stout wooden length before it could strike him.  
  
He did not know who was more shocked by this act, Kenneth Irons or himself. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth.  
  
"Let go of the cane, Ian," Irons recovered first, his tone brooking no argument.  
  
"I am sorry, Master. It must be the fever," Ian murmured, releasing the cane. He bowed his head, bracing himself for the blows he was certain were about to rain down upon him.  
  
To his surprise, Irons simply lowered the cane and resumed his circling. "I think your obvious ill health has had the surprising effect of arousing the Wielder's sympathy, young Nottingham, and that is why she no longer resents your interference. It has humanized you in her eyes. I think you know it, too."  
  
Ian said nothing, as no response appeared necessary. He was still reeling from the fact that he'd actually prevented his master from striking him. He had never done that before without Irons' tacit approval. Then again, he'd never had a fever in excess of 103 degrees before. The study was stifling, and he had to fight the almost irresistible urge to take off his overcoat along with perhaps one or two layers of clothing.  
  
"Ian!"  
  
He blinked, belatedly realizing that his master had apparently said something that did require a reply. "My apologies, sir. What did you ask me?"  
  
"I asked you if you believe you have gained a measure of the Wielder's trust," Irons said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. First, the younger man had had the audacity to prevent him from hitting him, and now he wasn't even listening to what he was saying. To be perfectly honest, however, Kenneth was relieved that Ian had stopped him from beating him because, in his current mood, he might have seriously injured the assassin, rendering him incapable of battling the Russians later that day, which would have been disastrous.  
  
"I suppose so," Ian said slowly. The airless room suddenly began to whirl. He put a gloved hand to his burning forehead, shaking his head in a futile effort to clear it.  
  
"That is good" Kenneth lied, seething inside. "Maybe she is becoming more amenable. What is wrong?" he asked sharply, finally noticing his servant's discomfort.  
  
"It . . . it is very hot in here," Ian said thickly. Black dots began to eat away at the edges of his vision.  
  
"Move away from the fire, imbecile!" Irons snapped impatiently.  
  
Ian tried to obey him, but he staggered and would have fallen if he hadn't caught hold of the heavy, carved wooden chair his master had been sitting in.  
  
Kenneth frowned. "How pathetic!" he said, his voice dripping with disgust and, worse, disappointment. He waved a dismissive hand. "Go report to Dr. Immo, Ian. He is most eager to take a look at you."  
  
"I need the antidote, Master," Ian whispered, swaying woozily.  
  
"And you shall have it -- if you can keep the Wielder safe until she has apprehended this Angel Medina and his brother. Only then will Dr. Immo be allowed to give it to you. You still have not proven to me that you are worthy of the title of Protector, Ian. If you fail the Wielder because of your weakness, you fail me, too."  
  
"And if Sara does not catch the Medina brothers?"  
  
"Then what she saw in the vision will come true. Her nephew will die, and she will be devastated by his death. She might never completely recover from such a tragedy, and she most certainly would never forgive you for failing to prevent it from happening. You would not want that, would you, Ian? Do whatever you must to prevent Joaquin Medina from killing the boy," Irons told him. "Now, go see Dr. Immo."  
  
"Yes, Master." Only slightly unsteady on his feet, Ian turned and left the study. Once outside the stuffy room, he took several deep, cleansing breaths of the markedly cooler, fresh air. His head rapidly cleared and he soon felt much better. Resignedly, he headed for Dr. Immo's lab.  
  
An end to this ordeal was finally in sight, he thought with a vast sense of relief as he rode the elevator down to the basement sublevel. All he had to do to receive the antidote was get through the rest of the day, making certain that Angel and Joaquin Medina were taken down and that no harm befell Sara Pezzini, Joseph Siri, Jr., or Detective Tommy Fuller in the process. Piece of cake.  
  
"There you are, young Nottingham! I have been anxiously awaiting your return," Dr. Immo said as soon as Ian appeared in the doorway to his lab. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"How do you think I feel, Doctor? The toxin you injected me with is slowly killing me," Ian said coldly, glaring at him.  
  
"I am well aware of that unfortunate fact, young man. Please understand that I was only following orders," the gray-haired man said quietly, guilt easily visible on his lined face. "Now, I need to document your symptoms, so, if you would, kindly relate them to me."  
  
Careful to keep several feet between them, Nottingham rattled off the list of the symptoms he had suffered since awakening yesterday morning. He also told the doctor his latest temperature reading, although, of course, he neglected to mention who had taken it.  
  
"Let's see how high your fever is now, shall we?"  
  
Ian barely restrained himself from refusing to comply. He did not want the deceptively kindly looking physician to come near him ever again. Snatching the digital thermometer out of the older man's hand, he placed it in his own mouth, his febrile eyes warning the doctor to keep his distance. When the device beeped, he removed it and handed it to Dr. Immo without even glancing at the reading.  
  
"Oh my, 103.1. What was the very first reading and what time did you take it?"  
  
Ian frowned, finding it a struggle to remember. Had it really been only yesterday afternoon that Gabriel Bowman had first taken his temperature while Nottingham had been holed up at Talismaniac? It felt like it had been much longer ago than that. "It was 101.4 at approximately 14:00 hours yesterday," he finally informed the doctor.  
  
"Hmmm," was Immo's only response to this information.  
  
"How long to do I have, Doctor?" Ian asked quietly. "And I will know if you are lying."  
  
"Well, assuming your temperature keeps rising at the same rate, it will most likely top 106 by this time Friday morning. If I'm not mistaken, the fever is already affecting your thought processes, and that will only worsen the higher it gets. If I had to guess, I would say you will probably become incapacitated by delirium when your temperature reaches the vicinity of 105, perhaps 106. The onset of ultimately fatal convulsions will occur shortly thereafter."  
  
"Is there anything I can do that will buy me more time?" Ian inquired.  
  
"If you were to soak in an ice-filled tub for as long as you could stand it, you might delay the inevitable by an hour or two. However, owing to the danger of hypothermia, I wouldn't recommend you try something like that unsupervised."  
  
A faint smile turned up the corners of Ian's lips. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'I was planning on taking a cold shower anyway. I might as well make it an extremely cold bath.'  
  
Aloud, he said "An extra hour or two might make all the difference in the world, Doctor."  
  
"I will prepare the bath for you. The stainless steel tub in the physical therapy room will be perfect for our purposes. Keep in that mind that physical exertion will drive the fever higher faster," the doctor cautioned him. "Try to stay as still and quiet as possible after you leave here to attend to your duties."  
  
"Somehow, I do not think that will be possible, Dr. Immo," Ian replied wearily. "Still and quiet and Sara Pezzini just do not go together."  
  
  
  
More to come. Thanks to everybody for the wonderful and extremely encouraging feedback. Keep it coming, please! 


	27. Chapter 28

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. That would be slavery. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 28.  
  
It took Sara Pezzini nearly an hour to reach Detective Mike Morgan, who was still down at the docks overseeing the mop-up of the failed drug bust operation.  
  
"Hey, Pez," Mike said, when she was finally put through. He sounded dispirited and tired.  
  
"Hey, Mike. Operation didn't turn out so good, hunh?" she said sympathetically.  
  
"It felt wrong from the get-go, if you wanna know the truth," the detective told her. "However, INS now has their hands full processing three dozen illegals."  
  
"So, the Dominican Star turned out to be a smuggler after all. Except human contraband instead of drugs."  
  
"Yeah. What's up? Dispatch said you had something urgent to pass along to me and my commanding officer."  
  
"I leaned on an informant to find out where Angel's new location is. I checked it out and he gave me good info. It's an abandoned ice factory on 7th Street between Avenues C and D. I also discovered that your undercover guy is there, under close watch by Medina's men," Sara told the narcotics squad detective, who was also her partner's good friend. "Detective Fuller's a little freaked seeing as he's been out of contact with his surveillance unit for more than 48 hours. But more importantly, he says Angel and Joaquin are still waiting for the drug shipment to arrive. Apparently, it's been delayed by bad weather, the same weather system that's heading our way, meaning it's most likely coming by air or by land. My snitch also says that if Angel even smells a hint of surveillance, he won't come within a mile of the new den. Your people and the DEA are going to have to leave a very generous buffer zone around that factory."  
  
"That's excellent news about Tommy being okay. I'll pass that info along to my C.O. and we'll get him hooked up again within the hour. I hope you understand that I couldn't risk telling you and Danny that we'd lost touch with him until after tonight's operation, Pez. There was just too much at risk."  
  
"We're straight, Mike," Sara assured him. "But if you haven't already figured it out by now, I gotta tell you that I'll do anything to stop Angel and Joaquin. Detective Fuller's life isn't the only one at stake here. My nephew is still in danger, and will be until the Medina brothers are behind bars. My informant expects to hear from Angel in the next 24 hours. The minute he does, he's going to call me."  
  
"Can I let my C.O. in on this, Sara? All we had was Tommy, and we even managed to lose him for a while. Sounds like you might have the goods."  
  
"Just let me clear it with Captain Dante when I get to the house. He's a prick, but I don't need to make him more of an enemy than he already is by leaving him out of the loop."  
  
"I understand completely, Pez. I'll contact you later this morning."  
  
"See you in a few hours, Mike."  
  
When Sara hung up, the clock on her kitchen wall said 2:15 a.m. Sighing, she stripped, pulled on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, and fell into bed. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.  
  
But her sleep was not at all restful. She dreamt of Ian Nottingham collapsing to the ground after being cut down by a hail of bullets, interspersed with images of Joey Siri, Jr. dying the same horrible way. Even more disturbing was the dream she had toward dawn of a man whose long, dark hair obscured his features as he made torrid love to her. Sara could have cried with frustration when, just as her dream lover brought her to the brink of ecstasy, she awoke bathed in sweat, her heart pounding and her body tense and aching with thwarted desire. She groaned as a glance at the alarm clock on her night table showed that it was only 5:00 a.m. Entirely too keyed up to fall back asleep, Sara got up and took a long, hot shower, followed by a short cold one. Then she sat in her bathrobe at her kitchen table, drinking mug after mug of coffee and wondering how Nottingham had fared with getting the antidote he so desperately needed. At 7:00, she got dressed and then called Robert and Paula Siri's house.  
  
"Good morning," Robert answered cheerfully.  
  
"Hey, Robbie. It's me, Sara."  
  
"Hey, Sara. What's up?"  
  
"I'm afraid I've got bad news. The drug bust that was supposed to catch Angel Medina, the drug lord that killed Amanda's drug dealer, fell through last night, meaning that he's still on the loose. That also means Joey's not safe and won't be until we catch him," Sara told her surrogate older brother.  
  
"Damn. Joey's in seventh heaven, too, 'cause Amanda called and left a message on our answering machine last night saying he could go visit her in rehab this afternoon," Robert said.  
  
"Oh, well, that's good news that she's well enough to have visitors. But, Robbie, just to be safe, could you or Paula drive Joey to school?"  
  
"Yeah, no problem."  
  
"Good. I'm gonna meet him after school and escort him to Amanda's rehab facility. And I'll wait until he's done visiting her and take him home, too. Could I speak to Joey?"  
  
"Sure, hold on."  
  
Sara heard him call his son, and moments later Joey picked up the receiver.  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara! You'll never guess who left me a message on the answering machine last night!" the boy said excitedly.  
  
"Your dad told me Amanda called, Joey. That's great news," Sara said. "Listen, kiddo, I want you to promise me you won't breathe a word of your visit with her to anybody. Not even your best buddies at school."  
  
"Why, Aunt Sara?"  
  
"Because the drug lord who killed Paco hasn't been caught yet, and that means your life is still in danger. The fewer people who know your whereabouts, the better. I'm gonna come pick you up after school and take you to visit Amanda, and then I'm gonna take you home. Under no circumstances do I want you to go there alone. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"Promise me, Joey."  
  
"I promise I won't say anything to anyone, and that I'll wait for you to come get me."  
  
"Okay then. Have a good day at school, and I'll see you at around 3:00."  
  
"See you later, Aunt Sara. Hold on a minute, my mom wants to speak to you," Joey said.  
  
"Hello, Sara?"  
  
"Good morning, Paula."  
  
"Good morning. I just wanted to invite you to ride out the blizzard here with us. Joey and Gina Marie would love to have you, and so would Robert and me. The guest room is all fixed up already," her sister-in-law said.  
  
"Gee, Paula, that's very nice of you!" Sara said, realizing this was the other woman's way of apologizing for coming down hard on her the other night, when Sara had informed her and her husband of the trouble their son was in. "You know what, I think I'll take you up on the offer. I've been meaning to go food shopping for days, but somehow never got around to it. This way, I don't have to!" Sara told her.  
  
"I practically bought out the whole supermarket just the other day, so we're all set. I'm glad you're coming, and the kids will be thrilled."  
  
"I'll come by after Joey visits Amanda. My friend, Ian Nottingham, will probably drop us both off."  
  
"Great." Paula lowered her voice. "I know I don't have to tell you this, Sara, but that's one gorgeous hunk of man. We all instantly took a liking to him, too. And I think Marie is already planning the wedding."  
  
"Yeah, I don't think she believed me when I told her we're just friends and professional acquaintances," Sara said wryly, "but, I swear, that's all we are."  
  
"Maybe you should tell Ian that. I saw the way he kept looking at you during dinner. He's got it bad for you, Sara."  
  
"Yeah, uh, well, thanks for the invite, Paula. I'll see you later," Sara said, hastily ending the call.  
  
'This is definitely not good,' she thought to herself as she took a duffel bag out of her closet and began filling it with clothing. 'If the way Nottingham feels about me was that obvious to Paula, than it's probably true: He's in love with me.' She paused in the act of putting a pair of boxer shorts into the bag, wondering why this revelation caused nothing more than a slight feeling of unease in her. After all, the man was perhaps the world's deadliest assassin and her stalker, not exactly the guy next door. By all rights, she should have been running around her loft screaming in panic, instead of standing there calmly packing. Her alarm clock went off, and Sara saw that it was 7:30. Nottingham would be here in an hour, she thought, feeling a little flutter of anticipation in her belly. And then a wave of something close to panic did hit her as she realized that she was actually looking forward to seeing him again.  
  
'No, no, no!' she reprimanded herself with more than a little desperation. 'Nottingham is a bad, bad man, Pez. You cannot have him.' That last thought freaked her out even more, and she tested her own forehead for fever, deciding something must be seriously wrong with her. 'Oh, shit, I'm a freakin' mess! Too many sleepless nights, too much stress, and now indiscriminate horniness to boot! That's it: I've gotta get laid. And soon.'  
  
Minutes later, she found herself putting a kettle of water on to boil in preparation of making a thermos of peppermint tea for that very same bad, bad man.  
  
'I sure hope that bastard Irons gave Nottingham that antidote, so I can finally stop worrying about him,' she thought, throwing an irritable look at the bracelet on her right wrist. 'Right. As if. He's Protector Guy, so I always get to worry, hunh? Gee, thanks a lot, Witchy. Could you at least help me catch the Medina brothers so Nottingham can go back to stalking me at a distance as usual? Wait a sec, I mean so I can stop worrying about Joey's safety!' Sara shook her head helplessly as she finished packing. She zipped up the duffel bag, depositing it by the door. After making the tea, she commenced to alternately pace and then stand at the window, watching for her Protector's arrival.  
  
****  
  
Ian Nottingham spent perhaps the most miserable 50 minutes of his life in the stainless steel tub in the physical therapy room of Kenneth Irons' estate. In the wee hours of the morning, he immersed his fever-stricken body in the ice-water bath for as long as he could stand it, which turned out to be only 20 minutes. When his lips turned blue and he started slurring his words, Dr. Immo insisted that he get out of the freezing water. But it had the intended effect: When he went into the bath, his temperature was 103.1; when he came out, it was 99.8. Shivering and stumbling with exhaustion, Ian had gone to his room, barely managing to take off his sodden t-shirt and underwear before falling into his bed. The last thing he remembered was pulling the blankets up to his chin.  
  
Dr. Immo called him at 06:00 hours, requesting that he come down and have his temperature checked again. Ian had been awake since 05:00, which was when he had kicked off his blankets because they had become too warm. Unfortunately, it was not the blankets that had grown too warm; it was him. His fever had slowly crept up again during the few hours that he had managed to sleep. His slumber had not been at all restful, plagued as it was by vivid fever dreams, many of which had featured Sara Pezzini in various states of undress. Ian groaned as he realized that even while he was unconscious, his body responded to Sara, for he awoke hard and aching for her. Fortunately, his arousal subsided after he relieved himself and took a lukewarm shower. He would have expired from embarrassment had Dr. Immo noticed the evidence of his desire for the beautiful Wielder.  
  
After showering, Ian had donned a T-shirt and a pair of loose, black cotton drawstring pants before putting the haphazardly discarded, sopping wet underwear from last night in the hamper. Then, mindful of Dr. Immo's advice that he stay as still and quiet as possible, he'd stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering if Sara were awake yet, and, if so, was she thinking about him. His bond with the Wielder was slowly becoming stronger, but aside from occasionally anticipating her destination and sensing strong emotion from her, it was not nearly as powerful as it had the potential to become. He knew this from the glimpses of the lives of past Protectors that the Witchblade had shown him -- past lives in which the Protector and the Wielder had been far more than just allies. The call from the doctor interrupted his reverie. Putting on his robe, Ian headed down to the lab.  
  
"102.1," Dr. Immo pronounced a few minutes later, shaking his head. "I had hoped it would still be lower than that."  
  
"I will take another ice-water bath, Doctor. Maybe I can stay in it longer this time."  
  
"Ian, that could be dangerous. You started to exhibit signs of hypothermia within 20 minutes last night, which is about ten minutes longer than most human beings would have lasted before showing symptoms, but still."  
  
"Please, Doctor. I will need those extra hours if I am to prove to Mr. Irons that I am worthy of his employ as well as capable of protecting the Wielder."  
  
Immo sighed. "Very well. Give me about ten minutes to prepare the tub. Why don't you meditate until it's ready? And feel free to use my computer, if you wish," the doctor said before hurrying off.  
  
Ian sat cross-legged on the examination table and tried to meditate, giving up after a few minutes because he was too restless and feverish to concentrate. He wandered over to Dr. Immo's desk and sat down in front of the computer. On the monitor was a screensaver that depicted fluffy white cumulous clouds scudding across a scintillatingly blue sky. The words "Every cloud has a silver lining" scrolled slowly across the screen. Ian frowned as the phrase niggled at his memory, but a moment later he forgot about it as he did a quick search of the local newspapers' online versions to see if there was any mention of last night's drug bust operation. There wasn't. Next, he checked the weather forecast, which hadn't changed: a blizzard was taking dead aim at the Big Apple. The snow was expected to start late that night or early the next morning and to continue for the next two days. Idly, Ian wondered if he would be alive to see it. If both Sara and Dr. Immo were right about the rate at which his temperature was rising and he did not receive the antidote in time, he realized that he would probably be dead by early Friday morning.  
  
A few minutes later, Dr. Immo came back and announced that the bath was ready. This time, Ian managed to stay in it for nearly 30 minutes. Only his head remained above the freezing water, although, as before, the doctor insisted on placing a towel-wrapped bag of ice on top of it. By the time he couldn't endure it any longer, Ian was so thoroughly chilled, he needed the doctor's assistance to climb out of the tub. However, his temperature was 98.9 when he exited the bath, which pleased the doctor. As Ian sat shivering on a nearby bench, waiting for sensation to return to his extremities, Immo brought him the clothing he had worn yesterday, along with his overcoat.  
  
"You forgot to take these with you when you retired to your room last night, which is understandable. You were exhausted," the doctor said.  
  
"I am st-still weary, D-doctor. I d-did not sleep v-very long, or very well," Ian said through chattering teeth.  
  
"Fever dreams?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
The doctor studied the younger man's pale, drawn face in silence for several moments. "This assignment has not been easy on you, has it, young Nottingham?"  
  
"Sara works long hours," he admitted. "She is very dedicated to her job. However, I do not mind. She needs my protection."  
  
"But it must be difficult for you to be constantly exposed to such an attractive young woman, especially since I know you are unaccustomed to it."  
  
Ian shrugged. "I am coping."  
  
"Are you? Your recent lack of concentration and inattention to your duties suggest otherwise."  
  
Guessing where this was going, Ian attempted to stand, but found that his legs still wouldn't obey his brain's commands. They were burning and tingling quite painfully as circulation returned to them and the ice crystals that had formed in his blood melted. "I do not wish to discuss this subject, Doctor," he said, frowning at the older man in what he hoped was an intimidating manner.  
  
"As I said before, Ian, you are a healthy young man and she is a beautiful woman. It is perfectly normal for your body to react to her. You needn't be ashamed of it."  
  
Ian felt his face flush. He decided that silence was the best tactic. Maybe Immo would stop talking if he got no response from him.  
  
"I've noticed that you've been on edge lately," the doctor persisted. "Having no experience in this area, you have probably underestimated the power that repressed desire has to distract you. Your sex drive is very strong, young Nottingham. That was one of the side effects of the enhancements that were done to your genetic makeup, I'm afraid. Have you tried masturbating? Ejaculation is nature's way of relieving sexual tension."  
  
Ian closed his eyes in mortification.  
  
"It would probably help. I can e-mail you some literature if you are not sure how to go about --"  
  
With a gargantuan effort, Ian lurched to his feet. "Thank you, Dr. Immo, for preparing the ice-water bath for me. Hopefully, the next time I see you, I will be allowed to receive the antidote."  
  
"I hope so, too, my dear boy. Remember what I told you: physical exertion will only drive your fever up faster. Try to stay as calm and quiet as possible."  
  
"I will try. Good day, Doctor." Ian staggered from the room and returned to his quarters. He dressed himself with hands that were still clumsy from cold, and then put on his fur-lined coat. But at the last minute, he changed his mind, deciding that the heavy garment would make him become too warm too fast, negating the 30 minutes of frozen torture he'd just put himself through. He donned the overcoat Dr. Immo had returned to him, tossing the clothing he'd worn yesterday in the hamper along with his wet clothes.  
  
Ian discovered that he still had absolutely no appetite, so he just had a cup of peppermint tea, which he drank in solitude in the dining room, as his master had apparently decided to sleep in that morning. Or maybe he was still disgusted by that lamentable display of weakness in the study. Whatever the reason, Nottingham was glad of Irons' absence. He was almost positive that his face was still burning from the unwanted lesson in sexual education Dr. Immo had given him. Little did he know his master had been privy to the entire humiliating exchange.  
  
Before he left the estate, Ian remembered to put in a call to the grocer that Kenneth Irons patronized and arrange to have a delivery made to Sara's loft that afternoon. He stopped by the armory on his way to the garage and selected a few items to fortify his already formidable stockpile of weapons, just in case. As he got into the SUV, anticipation filled him at the prospect of seeing the beautiful Bladewielder again. Much as he hated to deceive her, Ian had already decided to lie about having received the antidote to the poison in his system. He didn't want her worrying about him when she should be concentrating on catching Angel and Joaquin Medina and keeping young Joseph safe. Hopefully, she would have accomplished this by the time it became obvious that he was still feverish.  
  
As was his habit, Ian parked a few blocks from Sara's loft and did a perimeter check. Thankfully, it wasn't bitterly cold outside, but there was a brisk wind and the sky was heavily overcast. The smell of snow hung in the air, and he imagined he could feel the city holding its breath in expectation of the severe wintry blast. His unremarkable reconnoiter completed, he got back into his vehicle and pulled up in front of the Wielder's building. But before he could get out and go upstairs to knock on her door, Sara came out of the building carrying a duffel bag.  
  
"Good morning, Nottingham," she said, as Ian swiftly got out and took the bag from her.  
  
"Good morning, my Lady," he replied, going around to the back of the SUV, opening the hatch, and stowing the bag in the trunk while Sara got into the passenger seat.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Sara asked him after he got back behind the wheel, noting that although he was no longer flushed, he was pale and still looked exhausted.  
  
"My fever is down," he said truthfully.  
  
"Let's see just how low it is," she said, pulling the digital thermometer out of her pocket.  
  
"Are you planning on going somewhere, Sara?" Ian asked her as they waited for the device to become ready for use.  
  
"Yeah. Robert and Paula invited me to stay at their house during the blizzard, and I accepted. Open up." She placed the device under his tongue.  
  
It beeped 90 seconds later, single beeps instead of fast double beeps.  
  
"Hey, look at that, 99.1. That's hardly a fever at all!" Sara said with satisfaction.  
  
"Dr. Immo said the antidote is fast-acting," Ian murmured, starting the car.  
  
Sara dug into the knapsack that she'd also brought with her. "Here," she said, extracting the thermos, "I made some peppermint tea for you."  
  
"Thank you, my Lady." Taking it from her, he placed it in the storage area between the two front seats. "That was very thoughtful of you."  
  
"Don't mention."  
  
"Are you sure you want to stay in Brooklyn, Sara?" he asked her. "In all likelihood, it will take several days for the city to dig out from the storm. You will probably be unable to make it in to work until Tuesday, or possibly Wednesday, whereas if you stayed at your loft, you would most likely be able to make it in on Monday."  
  
Sara shrugged, looking out the window. "I've got some vacation days coming to me. Where better to spend them than with my family? Besides, you could really use the time to rest up and fully recover from the effects of the poison your shithead of a boss injected you with, Nottingham."  
  
"I would not rest easily unless I could be certain you were safe, Sara," he said quietly.  
  
"I'll be fine at Robert and Paula's house. Mother Nature is about to make pretty sure of that."  
  
"I suppose you are right," he reluctantly conceded. The four, possibly five days he would be forced to go without seeing her stretched before him like a prison sentence. He realized that he would miss her terribly, but he got the feeling that she did not feel the same. In fact, he was fairly certain she would welcome the reprieve, and this crushed him.  
  
"You should be back to full strength by Wednesday, or close to it, which is a good thing, because you'll need to be strong to deal with Thanksgiving with the Siri family," she said, smiling at him. And just like that, Ian's spirits soared.  
  
"Do you think you could meet me at Amanda's rehab facility and take me and Joey to Brooklyn later this afternoon?" Sara asked him.  
  
Nottingham nodded. "It would be my pleasure. I assume you spoke with him this morning."  
  
"Yeah, I did. I made him promise not to mention his visit to Amanda to anyone at school and to wait for me to come escort him up there."  
  
"So, he is aware that he is still in danger."  
  
"Yeah. So are his parents. One of them is driving him to school, and I'm gonna pick him up in an unmarked car with Danny riding shotgun for the trip to the rehab facility in upper Manhattan. Danny can drop the car off after we see Joey safely there."  
  
"What did you tell your contact in narcotics when you reached him earlier?" Ian inquired.  
  
"I told him that I had leaned on an informant, who gave up the new location of Angel's base of operations, and that Detective Fuller was there and was being watched closely by Medina's men. He was very relieved to hear that Fuller was okay. Turns out, he knew contact had been lost, but he felt he couldn't risk telling me about it until the bust on the docks went down. I also told him that Angel's drug shipment had been delayed by the weather, and that my informant would call me if and when Angel gets in contact with him. He's gonna wait until I let Captain Dante in the loop before he tells his C.O. about my connection."  
  
"Your captain is not going to be pleased that you violated his orders to go track down Mr. Brown, Sara."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know," Sara sighed, rubbing her temples tiredly.  
  
'I love you with all my heart and will until the day I die, which is probably tomorrow,' Ian thought, glancing at her weary face. She gave him a sharp look, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he'd accidentally spoken out loud.  
  
"Turns out the Dominican Star was smuggling something illegal: about three dozen stowaways. INS was on the scene processing them when I finally got through to my contact in narcotics," she told him.  
  
They pulled up in front of the 11th Precinct. "So, the operation was not a total loss."  
  
"No. As soon as Alonzo calls you, you'll call me, right?"  
  
"Of course, my Lady. Here is the beeper number that Mr. Brown uses to alert Angel to danger. It may come in handy," Ian said, handing the slip of paper to her.  
  
"I suppose you've already memorized it, hunh?" Sara asked, eyeing him.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Hmph. Well, if you haven't heard from Alonzo by the time I have to go get Joey, I'll call you and you can meet us at the rehab facility. It's on 172nd and Broadway. Try to stay warm, Nottingham."  
  
"Have a good day, Sara. I will see you later," he said.  
  
"Oh, um, I'm just gonna leave my knapsack here in the backseat," Sara said, opening the rear passenger-side door. She quickly grabbed the plastic bag containing her tampons and tried to surreptitiously stuff it into the backpack, but when she glanced up, distinctly amused hazel eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. Face reddening, she slammed the door and marched into the precinct.  
  
More to come. Thanks to everyone for their ultra-encouraging feedback. You are my inspiration for continuing this saga. 


	28. Chapter 29

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around with them. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter. 29  
  
It started practically as soon as Sara Pezzini crossed the threshold of the 11th Precinct's stationhouse.  
  
"Hey, Pez! How's it going?" Ed Lesczynski, the desk sergeant, called to her in his booming voice. "What's this I hear about you and a tall, dark, and mysterious new boyfriend?"  
  
Inwardly, Sara cringed, sensing that every eye was now on her. Outwardly, she smirked at the burly sergeant.  
  
"Hey, Ed, good news: he's not my boyfriend. And although I don't think you're his type, I'll be happy to give him your number!" she cracked, prompting an outburst of laughter from all of the uniformed officers within earshot.  
  
"Ha, ha, very funny," said Ed, who was married 25 years with five kids. "I dunno, Pez. Mac swore you two looked pretty chummy when you left outta here last night. He said you were even holding hands!"  
  
There was a chorus of "Ooooos" from the peanut gallery, which eagerly awaited her comeback.  
  
"Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear, Lesczynski," Sara said. Then she leaned closer to him conspiratorially, before saying in a loud whisper "It's okay, Eddie. I really don't mind if he gives you a call. By the way, he likes taking long walks on the beach, Green Apple Martinis, and anything by Elton John and Tim Rice. I think you two would make a really cute couple."  
  
This drew more laughter, and several of the officers started razzing the hapless desk sergeant, who grinned good-naturedly.  
  
'I think my work here is done,' Sara thought. "Later, ladies," she said, getting while the getting was good and sprinting up the stairs to the second floor.  
  
When she was a few steps away from the office she shared with her partner, Danny Woo, she heard Jake McCartey's voice and paused to listen.  
  
"Rut-roh, Danny," Jake said. "Did you happen to notice what Pez has written down on her desk calendar for next week?"  
  
"No. What's it say?" Danny responded.  
  
"'Get Tampax.' I'm thinking it's a very, very good thing we're about to get buried by a blizzard. With any luck, her PMS will be over by the time we get back in here!"  
  
'Note to self: Never write personal stuff on your freakin' desk calendar again!' Sara thought, fuming,  
  
"So, you noticed that she tends to get a bit grouchy around that time of the month, have you?" Danny asked, and Sara could hear the smile in his voice.  
  
"Dude, 'a bit grouchy' is what Ms. Po gets; Pez gets positively vicious. Velociraptor vicious."  
  
'Gee, he says that like it's a bad thing!' Sara thought wryly, squirming a little where she stood. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Captain Bruno Dante was eyeing her suspiciously from his office.  
  
"Amen to that," Danny replied. "We've been partners going on eight years, my boy, and it never ceases to be a challenge during that, um, period of the month."  
  
"Tell me, oh Wise Asian Pun-Master, how doth thou tame the savage Pez beast?"  
  
Sara chose that moment to step into the doorway of the office.  
  
"Don't get caught sitting at her desk reading her desk calendar, for one thing," Danny murmured, spying her.  
  
Jake leapt out of Sara's chair as if he'd been jolted with electricity.  
  
"Hey, partner! You're here bright and early this morning," her partner observed, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin behind his hand.  
  
She grunted a response at him, and then glared at Jake McCartey. Irritatingly, he looked well rested and bright eyed despite having pulled overtime down at the docks the night before.  
  
"Oh, hey, Pez," Jake said, nervously, face red. "I was, uh, just waiting for you to get in so I could tell you the bad news about last night's --"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Sara cut him off, taking off her down jacket and stuffing her hat, scarf, and gloves into the sleeve before hanging it up. "I already know the bust was a bust, Rookie."  
  
Jake raised his eyebrows at her. "Oh, yeah? How'd you find out?"  
  
"Danny'll tell you about our contact in narcotics. I gotta go talk to Dante." She stalked across the hallway and knocked on their captain's open door.  
  
"You're still on desk duty, Petzini, so save your breath," Bruno Dante sneered at her before she could say anything.  
  
"Uh, okay, but I thought you might want to know about some info I have on the Gutierrez murder case before I pass it along to narcotics and the DEA," Sara said.  
  
The captain eyed her as though she'd just asked for an extra two weeks paid vacation and a pay raise. "I'm listening," he finally said grudgingly.  
  
His expression grew progressively stormier as, without revealing her informant's identity, Sara told him about locating Alonzo Brown last night and squeezing him for information, as well as what she had learned from him. When she was done, Dante looked mad enough to spit.  
  
"Why is it that you think you can get away with disobeying my direct orders, Petzini?" he asked her. "And don't bother giving me any crap about reaching out to this informant on your own time. You were conducting police business, which means you were on the clock."  
  
"I guess that means you'll put in for overtime for me, right Captain?" Sara said, and then immediately wished she hadn't when a dull red flush of anger colored Dante's face.  
  
"If this pans out, I'm gonna overlook your insubordination, Detective," he spat the title as if it were an insult. "I'll call the C.O. in narcotics and relay your info myself. But you better pray this leads to a collar, and don't even think about leaving your desk today. Dismissed."  
  
Feeling as though she'd gotten off fairly easily, Sara returned to the office she shared with Danny. Jake was sitting in Danny's guest chair, as though he wanted to put as much space between himself and her as possible, given her current mood.  
  
"So, you and Danny reached out to someone in narcotics," Jake said tentatively.  
  
Sara plopped down in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face wearily.  
  
"You're not going to give me a hard time for not telling you about that, are you, Jake? 'Cause I don't think I can handle any more shit from anybody right this minute," she told him, peering through her fingers at him.  
  
"Nah. But spill. What did you just tell Dante that has him looking like he wants to kill somebody?"  
  
"Yeah, Pez. Do tell," Danny said.  
  
Sara told them about the information she had gotten from her informant and about calling Mike Morgan to inform him of the location of Angel Medina's new drug den, as well as the predicament of the undercover detective virtually being held hostage there.  
  
"My snitch is supposed to call me the minute Angel calls asking him to perform lookout duties," she finished by saying.  
  
"Wow, that's really great," Jake said, obviously impressed. "You're some detective, Detective."  
  
"Yeah, Pez. Even I'm impressed," Danny said, but there was a look in his eye that said her story had raised more questions than it had answered for him.  
  
"Yeah, well, Captain Dante isn't. I'm pretty sure I've earned another week of desk duty off of this."  
  
Sara's phone rang.  
  
"Detective Pezzini."  
  
"Hey, Pez, it's Mike Morgan. Your captain just called over here. Just to let you know, my C.O. is probably gonna want you to be in on this bust, whenever it goes down. He's already cleared it with the DEA."  
  
"Good luck with him clearing it with Dante," Sara said. "He's not a happy camper that I disobeyed his orders about being restricted to desk duty."  
  
"Can't he see that your talents are wasted behind a desk? Don't answer that," he said quickly, bringing a smile to Sara's lips. "Say hi to the Woo for me. We all hope to hear from you soon."  
  
"Yeah, me too, Mike. Bye." Sara hung up and looked at her partner and Jake. "Mike says hi, Danny. He's our contact from narcotics," she told the rookie detective. "He also says his C.O. is gonna ask me to ride along when they finally move on Angel. I just hope it all goes down after 4:00." She explained about Joey and his plan to visit Amanda in rehab.  
  
"Will you ride shotgun with me when I go pick him up, Danny?" she asked her partner and best friend.  
  
"Sure, but how will we explain to Dante why we're signing out an unmarked car, not to mention that you're leaving your desk?"  
  
Sara frowned, not having thought of this. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," she muttered, taking a folder from the stack of paperwork in her in-box.  
  
The homicide department continued to be slower than normal, so Sara, Danny, and Jake were actually able to get caught up on their paperwork, something all three had thought would never happen. Sara and Jake even had time to make a few phone calls chasing down leads on the four active cases they'd been working. Unfortunately, none of leads panned out, which didn't surprise either of them as they had been slim to begin with.  
  
As the day wore on, Sara became increasingly restless. She couldn't stop thinking about Joey and the terrible vision of his death the Witchblade had shown her. Thoughts of her Protector also troubled her, and she found herself wondering if he was managing to stay warm wherever he was. It irritated her that she continued to worry about the assassin even though she knew he'd received the antidote and was no longer sick. So, despite the fact she hadn't consumed anything but about a gallon of coffee since waking up that morning, she decided to work off her nervous energy on the heavy bag in the precinct's gym during her lunch hour. It had been a few days since her last workout and she really felt the need for one. Sara had worked up a good sweat by the time Danny appeared. He, too, was dressed for a workout.  
  
"Here, let me hold that for you, partner," he said, taking the towel that had been draped around his neck and tossing it onto a nearby weight machine. He steadied the bag as Sara continued to jab furiously at it.  
  
"So, tell me, how is it I've never heard about this informant of yours before today, Pez?" he asked.  
  
Sara stopped punching the bag, and stared at him in dismay. Although she'd known this confrontation was coming, she had hoped to avoid it until later -- much later. She decided that she owed her longtime partner at least part of the truth.  
  
"After I left Joey's house the other night, I decided to go down to the vacant lot where he said he confronted Paco and Amanda, just on the slim chance I could find one of the bullets that Amanda fired from the gun, which was pretty crazy, seeing as it was dark out and all," Sara shook her head ruefully. "I was so worried about Joey, I wasn't exactly thinking too clearly at that point. I know I shouldn't have gone down there by myself at that time of night, but I didn't want to ask you to come with me, Danny, 'cause I figured you and Lee were probably celebrating getting the new house. Anyway, my presence attracted some unwanted attention. A group of local thugs confronted me. I flashed my badge and weapon at them. But when the others ran off, my informant stuck around. We came to an agreement," Sara said, picking up her own towel and wiping her face with it.  
  
"And why didn't you tell me about him before now?"  
  
She shrugged. "I didn't think we'd need him after last night's drug bust operation, so I didn't bother mentioning him to you. Plus, after what almost happened to me, I felt pretty stupid about going down there alone."  
  
"Yesterday, before you left here, you practically admitted you were going to stake out the docks. What made you change your mind?" Danny asked curiously.  
  
"I got to thinking: What if my presence scared off Angel? I decided I just couldn't risk it. Ironic, hunh?"  
  
"And yet, even though you had no reason to believe the operation on the docks was gonna fail, you decided to lean on this guy, just on the off- chance that it did," Danny said, his dark, almond-shaped eyes regarding her skeptically.  
  
Sara shrugged again. "I just want to stop worrying about my nephew's safety, Danny. I had a hunch this guy would know where Angel's drug den was, and I decided it couldn't hurt to have a plan B."  
  
"I can't help but notice that these hunches of yours are almost clairvoyant, partner. If you believe in that sort of thing." He turned to pick up his towel, and Sara heaved a mental sigh of relief that her explanation had appeared to satisfy him. "How's the situation with your stalker?" he caught her off guard by inquiring.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply, before belatedly realizing that her partner had no idea who Nottingham really was.  
  
He glanced at her curiously. "You know, the guy who, based on your phone conversation with Gabriel yesterday, sure as hell sounded like he was stalking you."  
  
"Oh, him. I don't think that's a problem anymore. I haven't seen him lurking around in a couple of days now."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah, I think he got the message. What made you ask about him?" Sara asked him.  
  
"Well, there's a rumor floating around that you showed up here late last night with a guy that you seemed pretty friendly with. I just wondered if maybe you hadn't decided to say what the heck, and go out with your stalker," Danny shrugged.  
  
"Um, no, I'm not that hard up yet, Danny," Sara said firmly. "The guy last night was just a friend."  
  
"Okay, whatever you say. Hey, I've got an idea how we can sign out the unmarked car from the motor pool no questions asked," he told her, thankfully changing the subject.  
  
"Do tell."  
  
"Well, in a couple of hours, you're gonna go to Dante and say your informant called and is refusing to talk unless he gets some compensation for his trouble. Of course, he'll only trust you to make the payment," Danny said. "And you and me have to deliver it to him and then sit on him until Angel calls him."  
  
"That's one of the things I love about you, partner. You've got a devious mind," Sara grinned.  
  
"I try, Pez, I try," he grinned back at her.  
  
"I'll even give all of the money Dante vouchers to my guy, even though I'm tempted to use some of it to get you and Lee a nice housewarming present."  
  
"Awww, you'd do that for us? I'm touched, Pez."  
  
She watched as the handsome Asian detective began to warm up with some Tai Chi, openly admiring his graceful movements and beautifully sculpted physique.  
  
'Hmmm, I wonder what Nottingham would look like in just a tank top and sweatpants?' she found herself thinking. 'Or better yet, his birthday suit. I'll bet there's quite a body hidden beneath all those layers of black clothing. Mmmm, I'd like to unwrap him like a present.'  
  
Sara blinked, as if coming out of one of the Witchblade's trances, and shook her head in a vain effort to clear the fog of lust from her brain. 'Whoa! What the f---!?! Oh, God! Must get laid soon. Must get laid soon.'  
  
She kept repeating this mantra to herself as she headed for the showers.  
  
****  
  
Ian Nottingham stood on the roof of the building across from the 11th Precinct, observing the comings and goings on the street below. Earlier, he had watched through his high-powered rifle scope as Sara Pezzini had spoken to her captain, no doubt informing him about what both Alonzo Brown and Detective Tommy Fuller had told Ian the night before. Even from a distance, he picked up on not-so-subtle body language cues that told him she was not enjoying the tête-à-tête at all. But then the loud sound of grinding gears had distracted him. Glancing down, he'd seen a Wonder Bread delivery truck passing by the precinct, and when he looked back up, the Wielder had left Captain Bruno Dante's office.  
  
Opening the thermos of peppermint tea she had so thoughtfully provided for him, Ian poured himself a cup. As he sipped the steaming beverage, he wondered if the brevity of the meeting meant that Sara had gotten off lightly despite disobeying her superior officer's direct orders yet again.  
  
Ian found it more than a little odd that the Wielder's numerous prior acts of insubordination had resulted in nothing worse than her being restricted to desk duty and, once, a temporary suspension. He knew there was no love lost between Sara and her commanding officer. It made Ian wonder if perhaps the Bruno Dante was the cop that Kenneth Irons' had on his payroll in the 11th Precinct. It certainly made sense that it would be him. Who better to control than the man who had direct supervision over Sara Pezzini? Ian had long suspected that his master had several puppets on the New York City police force, at least one of which was much higher up on the chain of command than Dante. There could be no other explanation for the way attention was routinely and conveniently deflected away from some of Mr. Irons' more shady dealings, several of which Ian had figured prominently in. And then there was the fact that in the weeks after the Witchblade had chosen her as its Wielder, Sara had been assigned to a number of cases in which she had ended up being forced to wield the ancient weapon. Nottingham was almost positive this hadn't been a coincidence. During those first few weeks, his master had repeatedly expressed his desire for the beautiful homicide detective to utilize the Witchblade, preferably in as violent a manner as possible.  
  
A rumbling sound below drew Ian's gaze, and he saw a delivery truck with Entenmanns's Baked Goods written on the side drive by the stationhouse, followed closely by yet another truck that said Hostess on it. His thoughts turned to the Witchblade's vision in which young Joseph Siri, Jr. had been murdered. Ian could not shake the feeling that, as the vision had foretold, something was going to prevent Sara from picking the boy up from his school. Furthermore, there was no doubt in his mind that, in his impatience to see his beloved again, the teenager was going to break his promise to his aunt and head to the rehab facility alone. Whatever was going to keep the Wielder from escorting the boy uptown was going to happen within the next few hours, and he presumed it was going to have something to do with the effort to capture Angel Medina. The call from Alonzo Brown could come at any minute, instantly mobilizing the combined DEA and narcotics squad personnel to take down the murderous drug lord. And knowing Sara, she would be in the vanguard of the force that stormed the abandoned ice factory on 7th Street.  
  
Ian was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, Kenneth Irons had ordered him to do whatever was necessary to make sure that Joaquin Medina did not kill the boy; on the other hand, he was duty-bound to protect the Wielder at all costs. He simply could not be in two places at once, and he had the distinct feeling that his employer had guessed that he would be forced to choose. So, Ian began to formulate a plan of action that would ensure that both the woman he loved and the boy he had grown very fond of would remain safe from harm. But in order for his plan to work, he would need assistance. Downing the last of his tea, he headed for the home of his ally, which conveniently happened to be located nearby.  
  
More to come. Thanks for continuing to inspire me with your encouraging feedback. Keep it coming, please! 


	29. Chapter 30

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. They're somebody else's. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
Author's note: Happy holidays, everybody! Much joy, peace, and good health to all this holiday season and for the New Year (and for life in general). I'm going to do my best to churn out the next couple of chapters before the end of the week, so keep checking! The action quotient is about to be upped considerably (I promise)!  
Chapter 30.  
Eschewing the sidewalks, Ian Nottingham took the rooftop route to his destination. This required quite a bit more exertion than walking the streets would have, but for some reason he could not quite put his finger on, he decided to err on the side of caution. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the building he wanted, he was feeling very hot and flushed. He rested for a few minutes in the cold air, and felt a little better if not any cooler. Easily disabling the rooftop door's alarms prior to picking the lock, he made his way down to the third floor.  
  
The door to the apartment he sought was ajar, and Ian silently slipped inside, the loud music blaring from within masking any sound he might have made. The main room of the dwelling was empty, so he made his way down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a home office.  
  
Gabriel Bowman sat at his computer, writing an e-mail and humming along to the song playing on the stereo in the other room. He was not dressed as outlandishly as the day before, opting instead for a tie-dyed T- shirt and a pair of burgundy corduroy jeans. Ian stood in the doorway for almost two minutes before the younger man noticed him.  
  
"Holy shit!" Gabriel yelped, starting so violently he splashed the coffee he had just picked up all over his desk and hand. He swore colorfully in Bulgarian at this and then leveled an annoyed glare at Ian. "Ever hear of knocking, Nottingham?"  
  
"This way is much more amusing," Ian replied, deadpan, which earned him a sharp look. "Besides, your front door was open. I simply could not resist. You might want to rethink that habit. It is highly unsafe."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm expecting a client to stop by any minute," the young entrepreneur said, snatching some tissues from a nearby box and blotting up the spilled liquid. "He lives in this building, so . . ." Gabriel frowned as he studied his unexpected guest's appearance more closely. "You look like shit, Nottingham," he observed bluntly.  
  
"I need your help, Mr. Bowman," Ian told him, ignoring his comment.  
  
"What, do you need me to persuade your prick of a boss to give you that antidote before you spontaneously combust?"  
  
"No. Perhaps I should clarify: it is Sara and her nephew that need your help," Ian said.  
  
"Does this have anything to do with that Witchblade vision she had in which the kid got killed?" Gabriel asked, tossing the sodden napkins in the garbage and briefly examining the reddened skin on the back of his hand.  
  
"It has everything to do with that vision," Ian responded. "If, as I suspect will come to pass, Sara is unable to escort young Joseph to the rehab facility, I will need you to go get him and take him there. Then, I want you to park and go inside. Wait until the boy's visit is finished, exchange clothes with him, and then pretend to be him when you leave the rehab facility. You and he are approximately the same size and weight, and if you pull up his coat's hood, your face will be hidden. Joaquin Medina will be none the wiser."  
  
"Hmmm, sounds like a good plan," Gabriel said when Ian was through speaking. "Except for the part where I get shot by the crazed brother of a drug lord."  
  
"You will be wearing a bulletproof vest. Your chest may be bruised, but you should be fine," Ian told him.  
  
"Easy for you to say, Mr. World-Famous Assassin. How can you be certain this Joaquin guy will only aim for the chest? And what if he uses armor-piercing bullets or something like that?"  
  
"I, too, saw the vision, Mr. Bowman. The gun he uses is a .22- caliber handgun. It may even be the same weapon that his brother used to murder Paco Gutierrez."  
  
"See? That guy caught two in the head, right? I don't mean to sound all wimpy, but if Joaquin decides to aim higher, I could be killed. Or, worse, if he aims lower, I could be singing falsetto for the rest of my life. Plus, Sara is not gonna be happy when she finds out you recruited me, one of her dearest friends, to act as Joey's decoy."  
  
"I understand your fears, Mr. Bowman, and you have a valid point about the Wielder being upset when she finds out that I placed you in harm's way -- "  
  
"So you do admit I could end up getting killed!" Gabriel interrupted him.  
  
"Based on what the vision showed me, I can honestly say the chances are very slim you will be fatally injured, but, yes, there is a distinct element of danger to this whole enterprise. Perhaps it will reassure you to know that I am exceedingly familiar with the damage a small-caliber handgun, such as the one Joaquin Medina used in the vision, can inflict, as well as how a person reacts when struck by a .22-caliber bullet. From what I saw in the vision, young Joseph was struck four times in the chest, but nowhere else. Two rounds missed him entirely. You would simply have to turn slightly toward the shooter as Joseph did when Joaquin called out to him from the car, presenting the widest possible target, and act like you are mortally wounded as you fall to the ground."  
  
"Yeah, but it might not be an act. I want to help the kid out, but shouldn't we leave this to the experts, like, say, the cops? What if I called in an anonymous tip and alerted the police to the danger the kid is in. Then maybe they could set up a decoy operation and nab Joaquin while they're at it. Seems like he gets away with murder in your plan," Gabriel pointed out.  
  
"I had thought of that, but then I came to the realization that Joaquin and his brother may not have made the pickup of the drug shipment by the time this goes down. And if the police apprehend Joaquin, they may lose all chance of catching Angel with that shipment. When Joaquin fails to check in with him after his 'errand,' Angel will realize that he has been apprehended. I have no doubt at all that he and the shipment will then disappear. But Angel will want to cover his tracks first, which means the undercover detective's life will be forfeit because he was a witness to Paco's murder. I think it is best if we leave the police out of this," Ian said.  
  
"Do you really think Joaquin will risk getting caught just to kill Joey?" the younger man asked.  
  
"I think he will do anything to please his brother, including risking capture, and it would certainly please Angel were young Joseph killed. Angel intends to send a message with this murder. Also, I read Joaquin's file. He is fiercely loyal to his brother, almost fanatically so, and he would never betray him. So, should the police capture him, they would not get anything out of him. I believe he would rather die first."  
  
"I see your point. Well, I guess there's nothing for it. I'll do it," Gabriel said. "But just make sure I'm cremated instead of buried. I don't wanna be buried."  
  
"I will endeavor to remember that for the distant future, Mr. Bowman. If you will allow me a few moments' access to your computer, I will bring up a recent photo of young Joseph so that you may readily identify him at his school."  
  
"Be my guest," Gabriel said, getting up. He watched as Nottingham swiftly accessed his own database, bringing up what looked like a school picture of Joseph Siri, Jr., and printing out a color copy. "Maybe I should ask you what your final wishes are, too, seeing as that fever is gonna kill you, and fairly soon from the looks of it. Why didn't your boss give you the antidote, if you don't mind me asking?" the younger man inquired.  
  
But just then, Ian's sharp hearing picked up the sound of footsteps headed in their direction. "It seems your client has arrived, Mr. Bowman," he said. He rose and moved to stand in the darkest corner of the room.  
  
"Gabriel? Are you back here?" a man's voice called.  
  
"Yeah, Henry, I'm in my office. Come on back," Gabriel yelled, sitting back down at his computer.  
  
A man who looked to be somewhere in his early 50s appeared in the doorway a moment later, carrying a small box. "Must you really have the volume turned up that high?" Henry muttered, peering at the youthful entrepreneur over his reading glasses.  
  
"Whatcha got for me today, Henry?" Gabriel asked, ignoring the complaint.  
  
"Some very nice -- Oh! I didn't realize you already had company!" the older man interrupted himself upon noticing Ian Nottingham standing in the corner.  
  
"Ian Nottingham, Henry Traherne, antiquities dealer," Gabriel made the introductions.  
  
"Pleased to meet you," Henry Traherne said, crossing the room and extending his right hand.  
  
Ian shook hands with him, but when he would have withdrawn his gloved hand, the older man suddenly tightened his grip and then grasped Ian's right wrist with his other hand, his blue eyes widening.  
  
"Where did you get -- Umphf!" Henry grunted as he abruptly found himself shoved up against the wall, his right arm twisted up behind his back at an uncomfortable angle and a cold, metallic object pressed against his temple.  
  
"Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa! It's okay, Nottingham! Please don't shoot Henry," Gabriel said, jumping up. "His specialty is antique jewelry. He's kinda enthusiastic about it. I take it you noticed his ring, hunh, Henry?"  
  
"Yes, I did," Henry said. "It's quite a nice replica. I suppose I should have asked first if I could examine it."  
  
"That would have been wise," Ian murmured, releasing him and holstering his Glock, but keeping his hand on the grip just in case.  
  
"It is just that, from what I could see, it looks exactly like the real thing," Henry said, turning around as if nothing had happened and staring at Ian's coat, which now hid his right hand. "Or at least just like the few artistic renderings of Excalibur that I've seen. No known photographs exist. Where did you get it?"  
  
Ian shrugged. "I do not know. It has been in my possession for as long as I can remember. It may have been handed down through my family, but since I was orphaned at a very young age, I do not know for certain. I wore it on a chain around my neck until I grew big enough to wear it on my finger," he told him.  
  
"Hmmm. Do you mind if I examine it?"  
  
"I will not remove it."  
  
"Very well."  
  
Ian extended his right hand. Carefully clasping his hands behind his back, Henry peered at the heavy silver ring. "Come closer to the light, please?"  
  
Nottingham acquiesced, moving closer to the desk lamp. Henry bent over and examined the exquisite workmanship, first with his naked eye and then with a jeweler's loop.  
  
The designer had been a gifted artisan and silversmith. The shank of the ring was the incredibly detailed body of a dragon, very similar in appearance to those found on the swords and armor of samurai warriors during the late Edo period of Japan. Its scaly body sinuously curved around the wearer's finger, doubling back on itself so that it was difficult to tell where it began or ended. Two tiny red stones, possibly rubies, were set in to the beast's eye sockets, and one of its clawed feet clutched a small, unidentifiable blue stone, perhaps two or three carats in size.  
  
"Remarkable," Henry Traherne breathed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was the real thing. It is very, very old. Possibly silver, but it could be platinum, given the absence of any tarnish. The workmanship is fantastic and the condition is superb. Simply stunning."  
  
"What makes you so sure it's a replica, Henry?" Gabriel asked curiously.  
  
"Well, legend has it that the real Excalibur was thrown into an active volcano by its last owner."  
  
"Why did he do that?"  
  
"Unfortunately, he was wearing it at the time, so no one could ask him that question."  
  
"When was this?"  
  
"Allegedly before the birth of Christ. There is precious little information out there about it, and none more recent than the Crusades."  
  
"I've only come across bits and pieces about Excalibur in my own research forays," Gabriel admitted. "Wasn't it supposed to possess some sort of mystical power or something?"  
  
"Only if its wearer were a True Wielder, or Protector, or some such title, whatever that means. It is closely linked with another legendary object of power, the Digitablum Magae, or Witch's Glove."  
  
"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Gabriel murmured, catching the sharp look Nottingham threw Henry Traherne. "I've never been able to find a description of the powers Excalibur supposedly possessed, have you?"  
  
"Just once. While studying at Oxford as a much younger man, I came across a rather obscure reference to Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d' Arthur, which said that Malory came up with the idea of the legendary sword in the stone, Excalibur, from a fragment of a document he found in the catacombs that told of the powers of the real Excalibur. That document, which has since been lost or, more likely, disintegrated, allegedly suggested that the ring could be transformed into a sword by its Wielder, much like the Witch's Glove is said to be able to do."  
  
"Very interesting. Isn't it, Nottingham?" Gabriel said.  
  
"Fascinating," Ian agreed. He glanced at the clock on the computer. "However, I must be going. Thank you for agreeing to help out, Mr. Bowman. I will contact you later this afternoon. I apologize for my rough treatment of you, Mr. Traherne," he told the owlish older man.  
  
"Oh, that's quite all right. No harm done. As Gabriel said, I can be a little too enthusiastic about my work at times. If you are ever interested in selling that ring, Mr. Nottingham, please, give me a call. I'd make you a very generous offer." He handed Ian a business card.  
  
"I will never sell it, but perhaps we could talk again when I have more time?" Ian suggested.  
  
"It would be my pleasure, although I'm afraid I've told you virtually all I know about the real Excalibur. However, I am constantly doing research. One never knows what I might come across."  
  
"Good day then. Gabriel, might I avail myself of your facilities before I leave?" he asked Talismaniac's youthful owner.  
  
"Sure. Oh, and don't forget to bring the, uh, vest thingy when you stop by later," Gabriel said absently, already turning his attention to the box that Henry Traherne had brought with him. "Now, let's see what you've got, Henry."  
  
Ian crossed the hallway to the bathroom, half-listening to their conversation as he took off his ring and set it on the sink before stripping off his gloves. He smiled as he thought about the fanciful tale that the older man had just told. One of the nuns at the orphanage he'd been placed in had once told him that he'd arrived there with the ring on a leather cord around his neck. She said that even as a tiny child, he would get terribly upset if the ring were taken from him for more than a few moments. Eventually, the cord had disintegrated, and the nuns had replaced it with a simple silver chain that Ian still had. The ring had not fit him until the year he had turned 21. One last growth spurt had filled out his shoulders and chest and added another inch to his height. Ian remembered awakening one morning to find that the chain had become caught on something during the night and snapped. Several moments of panic had ensued when a frantic search of the bedclothes failed to turn up the ring until he discovered that it had somehow ended up on his right index finger, where it fit perfectly. This was where Ian always wore it during the rare occasions that he went gloveless.  
  
He flushed the toilet and washed and dried his hands. After putting on his gloves and ring, Ian turned to go, but then hesitated. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the digital thermometer. Without bothering to disinfect it, he activated the device and put it in his mouth. The fast double beeps that sounded 90 seconds later seemed deafeningly loud in the small bathroom, and he quickly silenced it. The readout said 102.2. Sighing, Ian put the thermometer back in Mr. Bowman medicine cabinet and left Talismaniac.  
More to come. Thank you for all of the wonderful and inspiring feedback. Please, sir, may I have some more? 


	30. Chapter 31

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters, although I wish I did and that the TV show hadn't been canceled. Sigh. Anyway, enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: In a quest for authenticity, I've decided to go back and change all mention of the vice squad to the narcotics task force after viewing "Law & Order: SVU" the other night.  
  
Chapter 31.  
  
After showering, Sara returned to the homicide department to find Captain Bruno Dante's office crowded with several men, including Jake McCartey and Frank Orlinsky. Her heart sank as she also recognized Mike Morgan among them. As soon as Dante spotted her, he beckoned her into his office.  
  
"Detective Sara Pezzini, this is Captain Sheldon Phillips, commanding officer of the 11th's narcotics task force," Dante said, indicating a handsome African-American man who looked to be somewhere in his mid- to late 40s. "And this is Agent Tim Atherton of the Drug Enforcement Agency, who's heading up the DEA's task force that's partnering with narcotics to take down the Medina brothers. I understand you already know Detective Mike Morgan."  
  
Sara shook hands with the men. "Yeah, Mike's a friend of my partner, Danny Woo, from their academy days," she said. "What's going on?"  
  
"We've just heard from Detective Tommy Fuller, our undercover man, and he told us something that I'm afraid you're not going to like," Captain Phillips told her, "but we're going to need you to cooperate with us on this if we're to catch the Medina brothers, Detective Pezzini."  
  
"Sure, anything I can do to help," Sara said, a feeling of foreboding filling her.  
  
"To prove his loyalty to Angel, Joaquin wants Detective Fuller to kill the kid that shook down one of Angel's dealers the other night, your nephew, Joseph Siri, Jr.," the narcotics task force's C.O. told her bluntly.  
  
Sara gasped. "Oh my God! We've got to get Joey into protective custody right away! Joaquin must know where he is!"  
  
"He does know where Joey goes to school, but Tommy says Joaquin wants him to kill the boy later this afternoon, at the rehab facility where his girlfriend is currently undergoing treatment for heroin addiction," Mike Morgan told her.  
  
"But how did Joaquin find out that Joey will be there this afternoon?" Sara asked.  
  
"We think someone who works at the facility tipped him off, and we're pretty sure we know who it was," the DEA agent whose name Sara had already forgotten said. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Detective Pezzini, but we can't take your nephew into protective custody without tipping off Joaquin that we're onto him and his brother."  
  
"So, what, you're just gonna let Joey be a sitting duck? No, I can't let that happen," Sara said, shaking her head. "I've already told him to wait for me after school lets out. I'm gonna go pick him up and take him to visit his girlfriend. I can take an unmarked car. Nobody would know I'm a cop."  
  
"Joaquin most likely has somebody watching Joey's school who could possibly make you as a police officer, Detective," Captain Phillips said. "He and his brother will disappear if they even suspect that we're onto them, and Detective Fuller's life would be gravely endangered. I'm sorry, but the boy can't be picked up by anyone. Nor can we risk alerting school officials. Your nephew could become spooked and panic."  
  
"Oh, so it's okay for a 16-year-old boy's life to be 'gravely endangered,' but not an undercover cop's?" Sara snapped. "If you think I'm a hard sell, try telling that to his parents."  
  
"Hear me out, Detective," the narcotics squad's captain said soothingly. "Our plan is to have an undercover agent shadow the boy when he heads to the rehab facility. Once he gets there, we'll have another agent who's similar in size and body type exchange clothes with Joey. That person will be wearing a bulletproof vest when he leaves the facility."  
  
"However, now that Joaquin is at the ice factory, it's too risky for Detective Fuller to use his walky-talky again," the DEA agent said. "We need a female officer to call him on his cell phone in two hours, pretending to be his girlfriend. She must let him know in code that the decoy has been set up. We figure you'd be perfect for this job, seeing as you've already met Detective Fuller, and he'd recognize your voice."  
  
Sara blinked. 'Oh shit!' she thought. 'He won't know my voice. What the hell am I gonna do? I need to talk to Nottingham!' Out loud, she said. "Sure, no problem. Just brief me on the code, and I'll do it. But first I need to call Joey's parents and let them know their son is going to be used as bait. They're not gonna like this plan of yours one bit, that's for sure, but I'll make sure they know what's at stake here. I'm also gonna promise them nothing bad will happen to their son, and you guys better not make me out to be a liar."  
  
"Okay, Detective. Agent Atherton will coach you on the code that we're going to use with Detective Fuller. It's vitally important that you stick to the code because Medina has a device that can pick up cell phone conversations, and it's a good bet your call will be monitored," Captain Phillips said. "That's the reason we haven't tried this before. It's risky to do this at this juncture, but we're pretty sure Detective Fuller will be killed unless he pretends to go along with what Joaquin wants him to do. If there was some way we could do this without putting your nephew in danger, we would do it, but time is of the essence here, and the clock is running."  
  
"Gotcha. I'm gonna need a few minutes," Sara said, rising. She crossed the hall to her and Danny's office and closed the door behind her. Then she dialed Robert Siri's number and briefed him on the latest developments. As she expected, he seriously freaked out about the danger his son was in, and it was all she could do to assure him that Joey's safety was the first priority, especially since she herself wasn't entirely convinced of this fact. Next, she dialed Ian Nottingham.  
  
"Sara," he answered on the first ring.  
  
From the roof of the building across from the precinct, Ian had watched the Wielder speak to the men that had entered her captain's office just before she had returned from lunch. Whatever they told her made her visibly upset, and her rising anxiety had been clearly communicated to him through his bond with her. Five minutes after she left Bruno Dante's office, his phone had rung.  
  
"Nottingham, we've got big trouble," Sara said, and hurriedly explained the situation to him.  
  
"Not to panic, my Lady," Ian said calmly, after only a slight pause. "Detective Fuller must have been given your name, as, ostensibly, he has you to thank for putting him back in touch with his surveillance unit. It did not seem important at the time, but last night Detective Fuller gave me his wedding band and asked me to give it to his wife, Janine, if anything happened to him. Here's what you must do, Sara: Start the call by telling Detective Fuller that it is Janine calling. He will, of course, instantly know that you are not her, but he will also realize that you know who she is. Then contrive to mention my name to him. That will clue him in to the fact that you are the contact I told him I was working closely with at the 11th Precinct. From then on, follow the code that the DEA agent gives you. Everything will work out, my Lady. Joey will not come to any harm, I promise you."  
  
"But what if something goes wrong? What if Joaquin decides to shoot Joey at his school? He's gonna be waiting there all by himself for me to pick him up. He doesn't have a cell phone so I can't call him and tell him I'm not coming, and the task force doesn't want the school officials to tell him anything. Or what if Joaquin suddenly decides to kill him when he comes out of the subway instead of waiting for him to leave the rehab facility? Nottingham, could you pick Joey up from school and take him there? I'd feel so much better if I knew he was with you," Sara told him, ignoring the fact that Captain Phillips had stipulated that no one could pick the boy up from his school. Joey's vulnerability absolutely terrified her and she just didn't trust Joaquin Medina not to deviate from his plan.  
  
"Although my vehicle and appearance stand little chance of being mistaken for those of a member of law enforcement, there is a chance that an escort to the rehab facility would tip off Joaquin, who, like his brother, is extremely paranoid," Nottingham frustrated her by immediately saying. "Plus, you said an undercover agent would be shadowing young Joseph. My showing up unexpectedly to take him to the rehab facility could prompt that agent to take action, which would definitely have the effect of alerting Joaquin to the surveillance. So, much as I regret it, I must decline, my Lady."  
  
"Well, I can't just let Joey walk into a possible ambush between his school and the subway or between the subway and Amanda's rehab facility. There must be a way to warn him about what's gonna go down without tipping off Joaquin."  
  
"I have an idea about how to do that," Ian said.  
  
"Thank God for your brain, Nottingham," Sara said. "I'm so freaked out by this latest turn of events that I can't think straight. The vision we saw last night didn't warn us about this."  
  
"Ah, but the events we saw in the vision obviously occurred after Joaquin Medina returned to the drug den and suggested that Detective Fuller murder Joseph. Out of desperation, the detective might have agreed to do it, but when it came down to it, he may have tried to back out, and I have no doubt that Joaquin killed him for it."  
  
"So, you're saying that Tommy Fuller was already dead by the time Joaquin went gunning for Joey. But because we tracked Tommy down at the drug den last night and put him back in touch with his surveillance unit, he was able to alert the DEA and his squad to this gang-style murder plot."  
  
"Precisely. The Witchblade only showed us Joseph's killing because it was his picture you and I touched. I believe that if we had handled Detective Fuller's wedding band, we would have been sent a vision that showed his fate had he been forced to refuse to murder young Joseph this afternoon."  
  
"Boy, this prophetic stuff really gives me a headache," Sara groaned. "I guess I have more of this sort of thing to look forward to, hunh? Seeing as I'm the Wielder for the next 50 years or so. We don't have much time, Nottingham. I've got to get started memorizing that code. Quickly, tell me your plan to alert Joey to the danger he's in," Sara urged him.  
  
"I suggest we enlist the aid of Mr. Bowman, who is youthful enough to pass for a high school student. He could meet Joey at his school and let him know about the murder plot and the decoy plan to prevent it without tipping anyone off."  
  
"But Gabriel doesn't even know what Joey looks like. They've never met."  
  
"I can supply him with a recent photo of young Joseph. In addition, I will instruct Mr. Bowman to call you on his cell phone once he makes contact with the boy. That way, you can tell Joseph yourself about the decoy operation and that he should use extreme caution when leaving the subway."  
  
"I guess that will work. I don't have time to call and ask Gabriel if he'll do this for me. Will you call him?" Sara requested.  
  
"Yes. You will hear from Gabriel and Joseph after school lets out. Oh, and Sara, I think I should give you Detective Fuller's wedding band, so that you can give it to him after Angel and Joaquin are taken into custody. Do you think you can you meet me in the alley next to the precinct in an hour?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll just say I'm running out to get some coffee. And thanks a lot for everything, Nottingham. You've been a big help. See you in an hour. Bye." Sara said.  
  
"Goodbye, Sara," Ian said.  
  
The moment she hung up, he dialed Gabriel Bowman's number.  
  
"Talismaniac. You want it, I got it, or I know somebody who does."  
  
"Mr. Bowman, there's been a slight change in plans," Ian told him.  
  
"Please tell me that the psycho drug lord and his gun-crazy brother have been caught," Gabriel said hopefully.  
  
"I am afraid not, but you will be relieved to hear that you no longer must pretend to be Joseph Siri, Jr. this afternoon."  
  
"You can say that again. I definitely was not looking forward to eating hot lead. What changed?"  
  
Ian swiftly updated him on the latest twist of fate.  
  
"I don't know, Nottingham, getting shot in the chest is almost preferable to going back to high school," Gabriel joked.  
  
"I will have to take your word for that, Mr. Bowman."  
  
"I guess you didn't go to high school, hunh?"  
  
"No. I was . . . home schooled."  
  
"Lucky you. My high school years are not my fondest memories. You honestly think I look young enough to still be in high school?"  
  
"From a distance, yes. At the very least, a senior."  
  
"Gee, thanks a lot. Um, how are you feeling, Nottingham?"  
  
"I am fine."  
  
"No, you're not. Sara doesn't know you didn't get the antidote, does she?"  
  
"No, and if at all possible, I would like to keep it that way until after the Medina brothers are apprehended. I do not want her worrying about me, especially now when so much is at stake. It is vital that she remain focused on the task at hand."  
  
"She won't find out from me. But she does have eyes in her head. Sharp eyes. All she'll have to do is take one good look at you and she'll figure out that you're still sick," Gabriel pointed out. "Forgive me for saying so, but you looked pretty crappy earlier, Nottingham."  
  
"Then perhaps you would be so kind as do me another favor, Mr. Bowman?"  
  
"Sure. What do you need?"  
  
"I have arranged to meet Sara in the alley next to the 11th Precinct in one hour to give her the wedding band that the undercover detective gave me for safekeeping last night. Could you meet me there in 40 minutes? I will give you the ring, and you can give it to her for me."  
  
"That will only make her suspicious, but sure, I'll be there."  
  
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Bowman. I will see you shortly." Ian hung up. Opening his thermos of peppermint tea, he poured himself another cup of the still-hot beverage. He sipped it while his gaze restlessly scanned the street below. The vague sense of uneasiness that had plagued him before had intensified, and he could not shake the feeling that this was the calm before the storm -- literally and figuratively.  
  
****  
  
Sara glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that nearly 40 minutes had passed since she'd begun going over the code that would be used when she spoke to undercover narcotics detective Tommy Fuller in a little more than an hour. Mindful of Nottingham's recent bout with ill health, she decided not to keep him waiting out in the cold for her any longer than necessary.  
  
"I need a coffee break, Agent Atherton," she said, rising from her desk. "Do you want some, partner?"  
  
Danny glanced up from the magazine he'd been perusing. "I could use some fresh air myself. Why don't I come along with you?" he said, getting up.  
  
'Oh shit.' Sara thought. Reluctantly, she sat back down. "Well, if you're gonna go, I'm not braving the cold. Thanks, you know how I likes it."  
  
Danny shrugged, grabbing his coat. "Sure. Can I offer to pick up a cup of java for you, Agent Atherton?"  
  
"I'd appreciate it. Light, no sugar," the other man said, glad that he was going to have some time alone with Sara Pezzini. She was definitely the best looking female detective he'd ever had the pleasure of working with.  
  
Two minutes after Danny left their office, Sara stood up. "Come to think of it, I need to stretch my legs a bit. I'll be back in ten minutes," she told the dark-haired man, grabbing her coat and hurrying out of the office before he could respond.  
  
Sara headed outside, zipping up her coat and pulling on her hat and scarf as the cold air hit her. She was just in time to see Gabriel Bowman walk into the alley that was her own destination. Frowning, she hurried after him. The Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, signaling her Protector's proximity.  
  
"Hey, Gabriel, what are you doing here?" Sara said, noticing the young man's guilty start at the sound of her voice. She saw that he was wearing the same red, cream, and blue hand-knit wool hat with tassels on the peaked top and earflaps and matching scarf that he'd offered to loan Nottingham yesterday evening.  
  
"Oh, hey, Sara, I, um, well, you see -- "  
  
"I asked Mr. Bowman to come here so I could give him the photograph of Joseph Siri, Jr., and so we could go over our plan again," Ian Nottingham said from where he was standing in the shadows. "I also thought it might not be a bad idea if I supplied young Joseph with a bulletproof vest. Just in case." He handed a plain brown shopping bag to Gabriel.  
  
Sara saw that Nottingham was hatless, and that his long, dark hair was loose, effectively hiding his expression. She glanced suspiciously from one man to the other. "I guess standing outside and freezing in a dark alley is better than walking four blocks and meeting indoors where it's warm," she murmured. "Good thinking about the chest protection, though. And thanks for offering to do this, Gabriel. I'll feel much better knowing Joey is aware of what's gonna go down. Forewarned is forearmed, right, Nottingham?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady," Ian replied, keeping his head down and his gaze averted.  
  
"I'm glad I could help out, Chief," Gabriel said.  
  
"Let me have that ring, Nottingham," Sara said, holding out her right hand.  
  
He took it from the inside pocket of his overcoat and gave it to her, careful to drop it into her palm, rather than risk them both touching it and being shown another vision.  
  
Suddenly, Sara reached up with her other hand and started to push the hair away from his face. But before she could touch him, Ian grabbed her wrist. Her green eyes widened in surprise.  
  
"Let go of me, Nottingham," she growled, futilely trying to pull her arm from his steely grasp. "What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Police! Let her go and keep your hands where I can see them!" a voice shouted.  
  
Sara, Ian, and Gabriel looked toward the mouth of the alley to see Danny Woo advancing toward them, his gun drawn.  
  
More to come. Thanks for all of the feedback for the previous chapters. It's always welcome. 


	31. Chapter 32

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Top Cow, TNT and the WB do. I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Author's note: I know, I know! I promised that action was forthcoming. It is! Next chapter!  
  
  
  
Chapter 32.  
  
  
  
"Do it! Now!" Danny Woo snapped, when Sara, Gabriel, and Nottingham just stared at him in frozen surprise.  
  
"Danny, this isn't what it looks like!" Sara said, recovering first. "But you'd better do what he says, Nottingham," she told her Protector.  
  
Ian released her and raised his gloved hands to shoulder level, watching the Asian detective through the curtain of his hair.  
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the guy who's been stalking you, Pez?" Danny asked Sara, keeping his eyes on the big, black-clad man.  
  
"Well, technically, yes, he has been shadowing me, but he's no threat to me. Please, Danny, put away your gun and I'll explain everything," she implored, turning to face her partner.  
  
"Not until you tell me who he is and why he was attacking you," Danny refused.  
  
"He wasn't attacking her," Gabriel spoke up, "despite what it looked like."  
  
"I would never hurt, Sara. I love her. In fact, I would give my life for her," Ian said softly in Cantonese.  
  
Danny stared hard at the assassin, annoyed that he could not see the man's face clearly through his hair. "Uh, not really helping your cause here, Stalker Guy," he said in English. "In fact, you just majorly creeped me out." He glanced at Gabriel. "I'm guessing he's not your cousin, Bowman."  
  
"No, he's not," the young man admitted. "But what Sara said is true: He'd never do anything to harm her. He's a friend who's been helping her out with this situation involving her nephew."  
  
"He's right, Danny," Sara concurred, wondering what the hell Nottingham had said to her partner. Something disturbing, judging by the look Danny had given him. "By the way, what made you come back here?" she asked curiously.  
  
Frowning, Danny slowly put away his service weapon. "I'd only gone a couple of blocks when I realized I forgot my wallet," he told her. "I was heading back when I saw Bowman go into the alley, followed a minute later by you. So, I decided to see what was going on. I peeked around the corner and saw tall, dark, and scary there grab you. Mind telling me just what the hell is going on, Pez?"  
  
"It's a long story, Danny, and we don't have much time. Agent Atherton is gonna start wondering where I am in a few minutes," Sara told him. "Danny Woo meet Ian Nottingham. We met several months ago at the Midtown Museum. He's head of security for Kenneth Irons."  
  
"The billionaire? I seem to remember reading that he had some artifacts on display at the museum," Danny said. "Too bad they got all blowed up, but good thing you somehow didn't."  
  
"Yeah. Nottingham was working security detail the day of the shootout with Vespucci in the museum, and that's how we met. Later, we ran into each other again, and, uh, became friends. He agreed to help out when I told him about the trouble Joey was in. He's the one who made contact with the undercover narc at the abandoned factory last night."  
  
Danny nodded, eyeing Nottingham whose gaze was now fixed on the ground. "No offense, Pez, but I gotta admit I was wondering how you'd managed to get in and out of that place without being detected. I'd hazard a guess that Mr. Nottingham here has covert ops training."  
  
"Good guess," Sara murmured. "Anyway, I also enlisted Gabriel's help in giving Joey a heads up about the decoy operation. I just can't stand the thought of him going to that rehab facility without knowing the danger he's in. Gabe is meeting him at his school and giving him a bulletproof vest to wear. He's gonna call me when he contacts Joey so that I can speak to him and let him know about the decoy setup."  
  
"You could pass for a student, Bowman," Danny observed. "I'll give you that."  
  
"Gee, thanks," Gabriel muttered.  
  
"However, you're gonna need a student ID or some kind of security clearance to get onto school property and meet Joey. Otherwise, school security will get suspicious, which might tip off anybody watching the school, whether it's Medina's guy or the task force's agent."  
  
"He has a point, my Lady," Ian Nottingham said. "I should have thought of that before."  
  
Sara frowned as she noticed the way he was rubbing his forehead.  
  
"Well, what do you suggest we do? Gabriel has to get inside the school if he's gonna warn Joey and give him that vest," Sara said.  
  
"I have an idea," Danny said. "Someone from the joint task force will call the school principal and tell him to expect a visit from a young, undercover narcotics officer this afternoon."  
  
Sara shook her head. "I doubt we'll get anybody from the DEA or narcotics to agree to that. They're too afraid of tipping off Joaquin to risk it."  
  
"Stuyvesant High School's principal doesn't know that. Nor does he know that Gabriel isn't an undercover officer. After Gabriel flashes a badge at security, I'm sure there won't be any questions asked. He'll meet with Joey, let him talk to you, give him the vest, and then be on his way before anybody gets suspicious."  
  
Sara stared at her partner for a moment, then gave an appreciative smile. "There's that devious mind at work again. What would I do without you, partner?"  
  
"Apparently, assemble your own task force made up of a former covert ops expert and a young antiquities dealer to help keep your nephew from being executed gang-style," Danny said wryly. "You know I always have your back, Pez. All you had to do was ask for my help." He glanced at Nottingham and grabbed Sara's arm, walking her a few feet away before asking in a low voice "So, what's the story with you two? Are you dating? And how come I didn't know about it? And you still haven't explained why the guy has been following you."  
  
Mindful of Nottingham's sharp hearing Sara shook her head. "Um, no, we're just friends, Danny. I thought his background would come in handy, and it has. I promise I'll explain everything in more detail when we have more time, okay?"  
  
"Okay, but why did he grab you like that before? It sure sounded to me like you weren't happy about it."  
  
"Uh, he has this thing about physical contact that I forgot about," Sara said, aware of how lame this explanation sounded.  
  
"He's kind of creepy, what with the no eye contact, all-black ensemble, and lurking in the shadows. But if you say he's a friend, I believe you," Danny said, shaking his head. "I take it he's the guy you showed up here with last night that everybody's talking about."  
  
"Yeah. I needed to access the criminal database to get a home address on my informant. Nottingham was the one who chased off those hoodlums the other night when I went down to Alphabet City by myself," Sara told him. "He picked the guy out from a mug shot book and it was his idea to lean on him in order to find out the location of the new drug den. Then he went and checked the place out and discovered that Tommy Fuller was there under close watch and that he'd been cut off from his surveillance unit. He told the detective that he was working closely with someone from the 11th Precinct, but didn't identify me. Somehow, between now and when I call him, I've got to figure out a way of letting Detective Fuller know that I'm the contact Nottingham mentioned."  
  
Just then, Nottingham said something to Gabriel in a tone of voice that, for him, was practically shouting, distracting her for a moment.  
  
"Well, I'd better hurry up and get those coffees and you'd better head back inside before Atherton gets suspicious. You wouldn't happen to have a few bucks on you, would you, partner?" Danny asked, glancing at his watch.  
  
Sara pulled some money out of her coat pocket and handed it to him. "Thanks for offering to help out, Danny. I would've of asked you earlier, but I didn't want to get you any more involved in this mess than you already were."  
  
"Yeah, well, it stuck in my craw that you insisted on taking all of the heat about keeping quiet about the gun the other day. We're partners, Pez. Don't ever be afraid to ask me for help."  
  
While Sara and her partner were talking, Gabriel Bowman spoke to Ian Nottingham in a low voice.  
  
"Not smart stopping her from touching you, Nottingham," Gabriel said. "You only pissed her off."  
  
"She was going to touch my forehead. She would have realized that I am still feverish," he said distractedly, trying to listen to what the partners were saying.  
  
"Oh, and now she's going to forget all about it, right? If she wasn't suspicious before, she sure is now."  
  
"We shall see."  
  
"And telling her partner you're in love with her when he already thinks you're some kind of psycho stalker wasn't the best move either. You're lucky he didn't bust a cap in you just to be safe. He's kind of protective of her, which I'm sure you can understand. I think the fever is affecting your judgment, Nottingham, which could be dangerous for all concerned."  
  
"Dangerous for you if you insist on continuing to annoy me," Ian murmured, rubbing his forehead. His head had started to ache and he felt very hot and slightly disconnected from reality. Then he frowned as realization dawned on him. "You speak Cantonese?"  
  
"Just enough to get by," Gabriel told him, not entirely sure the big man had been joking about being annoyed by him. "You should just tell her that Irons didn't give you the antidote and get it over with."  
  
"When I want your advice, I will ask for it," Ian snapped at him, scowling, then winced when his tone drew a frowning look from Sara.  
  
The young entrepreneur took a cautious step back from him. "Um, sorry I'm irritating you. I just think she deserves your honesty, that's all."  
  
"Her nephew's life, that of the undercover detective's, and very possibly her own are at stake here. I do not want to be a distraction to her. I am supposed to be her Protector. It is my job to worry about her safety, not the other way around. I have to be strong for her. I have to!" Ian said fiercely.  
  
"Okay, okay!" Gabriel said soothingly, startled by Nottingham's obvious agitation. "I didn't mean to upset you. Try taking some deep, calming breaths."  
  
"My master promised to give me the antidote if I succeed in keeping the Wielder safe until she apprehends the Medina brothers. He also ordered me to keep young Joseph from getting killed. However, I cannot be in two places at once," Ian told him, massaging his aching temples. "That is why I was forced to ask for your assistance, Mr. Bowman. This is indeed turning out to be a true test of my fortitude."  
  
"It's more like cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me," the younger man said softly.  
  
Danny Woo looked at Gabriel Bowman. "I'll expect you to return this as soon as you're done with it," he said, handing him his badge.  
  
"Uh, sure," Gabriel grimaced, taking it. "I'll swing by and drop it off later. Just curious: how stiff is the sentence for impersonating an officer?"  
  
"You'll do fine," Danny assured him. "See you in a few, partner. Um, nice to meet you, Mr. Nottingham."  
  
"Entenmann's, Hostess, Wonder Bread," Ian muttered, staring at the ground.  
  
"Um, what are baked goods, Alex?" Gabriel said into the uncomfortable silence that followed, and laughed nervously.  
  
Danny frowned, but then shrugged and left the alley.  
  
Sara waited until he had disappeared from sight before rounding on the assassin. "Okay, what's with the Rain Man impression, Nottingham?"  
  
Ian glanced at her in confusion. "Rain Man?"  
  
Sara waved a hand dismissively, then whipped out the thermometer. "Open up."  
  
"No," he refused, actually backing away from her.  
  
Her mouth dropped open. "You did not just refuse to let me take your temperature, Nottingham," she growled, advancing on him.  
  
"Sara, you should be getting back to your desk. You have been gone for more than ten minutes," Ian said out of desperation.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, so what. Open. Up. NOW!"  
  
Heaving a sigh, he acquiesced, rubbing his forehead wearily.  
  
"Headache?" Sara asked him gently, placing the device in his mouth.  
  
He nodded, closing his eyes. Sara's heart contracted as she saw that his thick eyelashes were spiky with wetness and that more tears were leaking out from beneath his lids. They both flinched as fast double beeps sounded 90 seconds later.  
  
"103.5," Sara said tonelessly. "You lied to me."  
  
"I never said I received the antidote," Ian whispered.  
  
"But you let me assume you did. Tell me, how did you manage to fool both the thermometer and me this morning?" she asked coldly.  
  
"By submerging myself in an ice-water bath for half an hour before leaving the estate. I am sorry, Sara."  
  
"No, the kicked-puppy isn't going to work this time, Nottingham," Sara snapped, hardening her heart against his stricken expression. "I don't appreciate being lied to."  
  
"Damn! I was sure the tears would do the trick," Gabriel said. "Shutting up now," he said quickly at the irate look Sara threw him.  
  
"Sara, I did not want you worrying about me when you should be concentrating on catching the Medina brothers and keeping your nephew safe," Ian beseeched her. "Please, do not be angry with me!"  
  
"That poison is killing you, Nottingham, and you don't seem to care very much! Well, I do care. It seems I have no choice about that because of this!" She held up her right wrist, indicating the silver bracelet with its glowing red stone.  
  
"So, the Witchblade is the only reason you are concerned about my health," Ian murmured sadly.  
  
"Yes!" Sara snarled, wanting to hurt him in her frustration. "What? Did you think I actually cared about you? I only care about my real friends!"  
  
"Well, you will not have to worry about me for much longer," he growled, scrubbing the tears from his face, which became shuttered and distant like the Nottingham of old.  
  
"Hey, hey, kids, time out! We're all a bit stressed out right now. Let's not say things we'll regret later!" Gabriel said, alarmed at how quickly things had gotten out of control.  
  
"Shut up, Gabriel!" Sara snapped. "What do you mean by that, Nottingham? Are you finally gonna grow a spine and demand the antidote from that bastard Irons?"  
  
"What do you care?" he flung back at her, turning on his heel and stalking away, further down the alley.  
  
"I don't!" Sara yelled. "And I don't need you sneaking around after me either! I can take care of myself!"  
  
"Fine!" Nottingham shouted back, disappearing around the corner.  
  
"Yeah, well, I better not catch you spying on me again 'cause I just might shoot your ass!" she threatened.  
  
His contemptuous snort was just audible. "You could try, you ungrateful brat!"  
  
Sara's green eyes widened in fury, and she started to run down the alley after him, but Gabriel grabbed her by the arm. "You are so lucky Gabriel is holding me back, you freak!" she screamed.  
  
"Sticks and stones . . ." came the faint reply, and then the alley was empty except for one extremely incensed Wielder and one bemused and horrified young entrepreneur.  
  
  
  
  
  
More to come. Thanks for all of the great feedback, people. Keep it coming! 


	32. Chapter 33

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters, much to my regret. I'm just borrowing them.  
  
Author's Note: I know I promised to up the action quotient in my last note. I guess I'm just a tease! But don't get your panties in a twist! It's coming! I swear! Who's writing this story anyway? Sometimes, I think it's the characters and not me! Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 33.  
  
Abruptly, all of the fight went out of Sara, leaving her drained and appalled at her atrocious behavior. "What have I done?" she whispered, tears filling her eyes as she stared at the now empty alley.  
  
"I'd say you had a bit of a stress-induced meltdown, Chief," Gabriel said, realizing that it was now safe to let go of her arm.  
  
"I drove Nottingham away. I said some god-awful things to him, and now he's gone." She shook her head numbly. "Oh my God! Jake and Danny are right: I'm the PMS bitch from hell! Why didn't you stop me, Gabriel?"  
  
"Hey, I tried! Far be it for me to stop a force of nature like PMS," he said, raising his hands defensively. "If it's any consolation, Nottingham hasn't gone far. He can't abandon you, no matter how much he'd like to right now. The Twitchblade won't allow it."  
  
"Gee, that's comforting," Sara muttered, wiping her tear-streaked face with cold, trembling hands. "My Protector can't stand me, but he'll still catch a bullet for me."  
  
Gabriel shrugged. "An apology might help. Call him."  
  
Sara's mouth thinned stubbornly. "Maybe later. I've got to get back to my desk."  
  
"Um, he's half out of his mind with fever and thinks you hate him. I'm thinking you should make that call right now, Chief. You might not get another chance."  
  
Sara glanced sharply at him. "Are you trying to scare me, Gabriel? 'Cause you're doing a pretty good job of it," she said, taking out her cell phone.  
  
"I'm just saying cut the guy some slack."  
  
"Oh, all right. Geez!" She dialed Nottingham's number.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Sara winced at the curtness of his tone. "Um, sorry I yelled at you, Nottingham," she mumbled. Gabriel nodded and gave her the thumbs up sign. "But you really shouldn't have lied to me." Gabriel frowned, shaking his head, and made the thumbs down gesture.  
  
"Apology not accepted!" Nottingham snarled, and hung up.  
  
"What the --?" Sara gaped at the phone in her hand in disbelief. "The little shit hung up on me!" She scowled. "Oh, no, that won't do at all!" Furiously, she started to press redial, but Gabriel grabbed the phone from her.  
  
"Give it back, Gabriel!" she said through her teeth.  
  
"Now, just simmer down there, Missy PMS," he said. "You were about to flame out again."  
  
"He hung up on me!"  
  
"He's feverish, exhausted, and feeling more than a little underappreciated. You could have just said you're sorry and left it at that, but, noooo, you had to bust his balls again. Can you honestly blame him?"  
  
"Well, I guess not," she grudgingly admitted. "Give me my phone back." But the young man shook his head, putting it behind his back. "Come on, Gabriel! I've really got to get back to my desk. I'll call Nottingham later and make nice. I promise."  
  
"Okay, but would it have killed you to apologize for that remark about only caring for your 'real' friends? That was just plain cruel, Chief."  
  
Sara felt a twinge of guilt, and her temper flared defensively. "Oh for Christ's sake, what are you, his mother?" she exclaimed, snatching her phone out of his hand. "Ohhh, poor Nottingham! The big, bad Wielder hurt his feelings! Give me a freakin' break! He'll get over it!"  
  
"He might not, Sara," Gabriel said, completely serious, his dark eyes reproachful.  
  
"Again with the scare tactics? Oh, all right, but he better not hang up on me again," Sara grumbled. She dialed Nottingham's number once more.  
  
"Yes?" His voice sounded so distant and flat, she suddenly became desperate to make things right between them.  
  
"I am genuinely sorry for the hurtful things I said, Nottingham. I didn't mean any of them. Could you please find it in your heart to forgive me?" she asked softly. Gabriel nodded approvingly.  
  
"Very well," he said after a long pause, "I accept your apology. And I apologize for calling you an ungrateful brat."  
  
"That's okay. I deserved it," Sara said, a vast sense of relief filling her at his softly spoken words. "Hopefully, we'll speak again soon, after Alonzo contacts you. And then you'll meet me after the bust goes down, right?"  
  
"Yes. I will take you to young Joseph's home."  
  
"No. We're heading straight to Westchester and getting you that antidote. No ifs, ands, or buts, Nottingham. You're running out of time."  
  
"As you wish. Please be careful, my Lady."  
  
"I will, but I feel much safer knowing my Protector is watching my back."  
  
"Always." There was a pause. Then, hesitantly, "Sara?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I know I said you could never learn to care for someone like me, but do you? Care for me, I mean. Even just a little?" The yearning mixed with fear so clearly discernible in his soft voice melted her tender heart, and Sara realized that it had taken a tremendous act of bravery for him to ask this question of her. She also became conscious of the fact that her answer was terribly important, and that it marked a change in their relationship from which there was no turning back.  
  
"Yes," she said. "I care for all of my friends. And not just a little."  
  
"I am very glad to hear you say that, my Lady," he breathed, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "It means the world to me."  
  
"I'll speak to you later, Nottingham. Just try to take it easy until then, okay?"  
  
"I will try. Goodbye, Sara."  
  
"Bye." She hung up and pocketed her phone, grinning like a fool.  
  
"See? Now don't you feel better? And you've given him something to live for," Gabriel said.  
  
"Yeah, and it scares the shit out of me," she murmured, her grin fading. "He's in love with me, Gabriel. My Protector is in love with me."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You do?" Sara looked at her friend in surprise.  
  
"Yeah. So does Danny. That's what Nottingham told him in Cantonese."  
  
"Oh shit! What the hell am I gonna do?" She buried her face in her hands, then shook her head a little as if to clear it. "I don't have time to think about this now. I've been gone way too long as it is." They started walking toward the entrance of the alley. "Call me as soon as you contact Joey, Gabriel. And please be careful. If anybody figures out that you're not who you say you are, me and Danny are gonna be in big trouble and so is Tommy Fuller."  
  
"No pressure, hunh?" Gabriel murmured. "I promise to do my very best Johnny Depp impression. You know, 21 Jump Street?" he said at Sara's blank look.  
  
"Uh, sorry, I was never really into that show," she shrugged. "I guess I was too busy training to be a real cop."  
  
"Well, keep your fingers crossed. I'm a little out of my league here playing The Man. But if you ever need somebody to pose as an antiquities expert, I'm your guy."  
  
"Like Danny said, you'll do fine, Gabe. Thanks again, buddy. I owe you big time for this!"  
  
"Speak to you in a little while, Chief."  
  
They walked out of the alley together and then went their separate ways.  
  
****  
  
Almost exactly an hour later, Sara was back in her captain's office along with Dante, Sheldon Phillips, Agent Atherton, and detectives Mike Morgan, Jake McCartey, Frank Orlinsky, and Danny Woo.  
  
"Okay, Detective Pezzini, we're gonna patch the call through. It will come up as a Brooklyn number on Tommy's cell phone. Are you ready?"  
  
"Ready as I'll ever be," Sara said, taking a deep breath in a fruitless effort to calm her nerves.  
  
"Just refer to the script if you forget something," Agent Atherton said, indicating the paper in front of her. Sara was sitting at Dante's desk, using his phone. "Remember, try not to speak too fast."  
  
"Okay, let's do this," Captain Phillips said. "Go ahead, put the call through," he said into his headset. The other men also had on headsets so they could listen in on the call.  
  
"It's ringing," Sara whispered.  
  
"Hello?" a man's voice answered after the third ring.  
  
"Hey, baby, it's me, Janine."  
  
"Janine, it's not a good time. I'll call you back later."  
  
"No! Tommy, I must of left 50 voicemail messages for you, and you never called me back! I haven't heard from you in more than three days, and I was really starting to get worried! What's going on? Where the fuck are you?"  
  
"Baby, look, I'm sorry, but I been busy. You know, making that money."  
  
"To buy me that ring you keep saying you're gonna get me?" Sara ignored the alarmed look Atherton gave her as she deviated from the script. "Listen, baby, do you remember my friend, Ian, who works in the Diamond District?"  
  
"Yeah. What about him?"  
  
"He says he can get you a really great deal on an engagement ring. A nice one."  
  
Agent Atherton was motioning frantically toward the script.  
  
"Awww, baby, you know I don't got the money to buy you a ring yet. But I will soon, I promise."  
  
"You better. I miss you, baby."  
  
"I miss you, too, Janine. Now, I gotta go."  
  
"Wait, baby! Before I let you go I gotta tell you about my nephew, Johnny. You hafta talk to him. He's driving my sister crazy."  
  
"What's the kid done this time?" Tommy said, injecting just the right amount of impatience into his tone.  
  
"Carla actually caught him doin' the nasty with his girlfriend in his bedroom. Can you believe that? And he wasn't using protection! The girl's only 14 and she could be pregnant! Johnny could be a daddy at age 15!"  
  
"No shit? Carla must really be freaking out that she might be a grandmother at what, 35?"  
  
"Yeah, you gotta talk to him when you get home, Tommy. He'll listen to you. You gotta tell him about using protection. God knows his own dad could give a shit. All he cares about is his next bottle and chasing tail."  
  
"It's a little late for the facts of life talk, don'tcha think, Janine? The kid's already, uh, sexually active. I'll bet he even has protection but didn't use it."  
  
"Yeah, but if he didn't have any before, he does now. Carla ran right out and bought him some condoms. But she figures it'll be better coming from another guy about how he's gotta use them. Tommy, if you talk to him, I know he'll listen. He looks up to you. Please say you'll do it, baby? I would be really, really grateful, if you know what I mean," Sara lowered her voice to a throaty purr.  
  
"Okay, okay, I'll talk to him. You know I'd do anything for you, baby. Now, I really gotta go. I should be home tomorrow, or maybe the day after."  
  
"Okay, baby. I love you and I can't wait to see you."  
  
"I love you, too, baby. Bye."  
  
Sara hung up, heaving a huge sigh of relief.  
  
"Good job, Detective Pezzini," Captain Phillips said, patting her on the back. "I think he got the message."  
  
"Yeah, but what was that stuff about a ring, Detective?" Atherton asked, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow.  
  
"What? Doesn't every girl want an engagement ring? I thought it would be more realistic if I busted his balls about getting me one," Sara said.  
  
"It sure brought back fond memories for me," Danny said, smiling. "Lee actually made me open a savings account just for her ring. And she checked the deposit slips every month to make sure I was contributing to it."  
  
"Tell me about it, Woo," Mike Morgan said. "Angie went down to the Diamond District with a couple of her girlfriends, picked out the ring, and took a freakin' Polaroid of it. Which she then gave me. I guess she wasn't taking any chances on me getting the message."  
  
"My wife slipped a Tiffany's catalog into my newspaper after we'd only been dating for three months," Sheldon Phillips said wryly. "She'd already decided I was 'the one,' and felt I needed a little help making up my mind about her. And it had to be a Tiffany's ring with a rock no smaller than a carat, thank you very much -- on a detective's salary, no less. I'm pretty sure I'm still paying it off."  
  
The three happily married men grinned goofily at each other. The divorced Dante scratched his balding head indifferently, Orlinsky looked bored, and McCartey and Atherton chuckled a little uneasily.  
  
"There you go," Sara smirked, standing. "So, now I guess we wait to hear if Tommy makes the hit, right? Then what?"  
  
"And then we hope your informant comes through about Angel needing him for lookout duties. Otherwise, we'll be flying blind. Given the storm that's coming, we have make a move tonight," Captain Phillips said. "We have no other choice."  
  
"Anyone know what the latest forecast says? Still a blizzard?" Jake asked.  
  
"Yeah, a big one. Maybe 30 inches when it's all said and done," Orlinsky said, grinning nastily at the young, native Californian.  
  
"Great," the rookie muttered gloomily, shoving his fingers through his spiky blond hair.  
  
Sara moved toward the door. "I'll be waiting in my office to hear whether the decoy worked, Captain Phillips. School should be letting out in about an hour. Joey is really hot to see his girl, so I don't expect him to wait around very long when I don't show up, which means it should go down around 5:00 or so."  
  
"You'll be the first to hear how it went, Detective. Thanks for all your cooperation. If everything works out, there will probably be a commendation in it for you," Captain Phillips said.  
  
Sara saw Dante frown, and she had to struggle to keep a smug grin off her face. Danny followed her from their disgruntled captain's office into their own, closing the door behind him.  
  
"I made the call to Stuyvesant High's principal, Pez. He's told school security to expect Detective Bowman's visit."  
  
"'Detective Bowman,' eh? There's something you don't hear everyday," Sara said, sinking wearily into her chair. "God, Danny, I'm scared shitless for Joey. I hate feeling so helpless. And they wouldn't even let me go to the rehab facility."  
  
"They didn't want to chance tipping off the insider who told Angel that Joey would be there today. It'll all be over soon, partner. The bad guys will be off the street, and Joey will be safe. Plus, we'll be able to have snowball fights and make snowmen tomorrow!" Danny grinned.  
  
"Or sleep for 12 hours. Make that 24 hours. I'm so tired I can't think straight." Her own words made her think of her feverish Protector, and the Witchblade swirled warmly on her wrist, as if to let her know he was close by.  
  
"You've been going pretty much nonstop since Monday, Pez. You deserve a break, and Mother Nature looks like she's gonna be happy to oblige."  
  
"Yeah, and to think, you'll soon have a driveway to shovel! When's the closing?"  
  
"In two weeks. We'll be in the house by Christmas. Hard to believe, hunh?"  
  
"Yeah. And if you provide beer and pizza, you won't even have to hire a moving company."  
  
"Right, like Lee would let a bunch of ham-fisted detectives handle her china and furniture. No, we're getting professional movers." Her partner eyed her tired face speculatively for a moment. "So, just how friendly are you with Stalker Guy?"  
  
Sara threw him a dismayed look. "Our relationship is strictly platonic, Danny. I swear. He just, uh, watches out for me."  
  
"Yeah, I got that. But I also got the feeling he'd like for you to be a lot more than just friends, Pez. He's a pretty intense guy, isn't he?"  
  
"Major understatement. How'd you figure out he had a background in Special Forces?" she asked curiously.  
  
Danny tucked a strand of his shiny, black, shoulder-length hair behind his ear before answering. "Something about his stance and those combat boots. Plus, the black-on-black attire. But I must admit the long, girly-ass hair kinda threw me for a minute."  
  
Sara smiled. "People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, partner."  
  
"Hey, I'm more than manly enough to pull it off!"  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him. "I dare you to tell Nottingham to his face that he has 'girly-ass' hair."  
  
"Um, my mama didn't raise no fool. Guy looks like he could snatch my still-beating heart from my chest in an eye-blink with a pleasant smile on his face."  
  
"You're right," Sara agreed equably, "except for the smile part. Nottingham doesn't do smiles." 'At least not nearly often enough,' she thought to herself. 'I'm gonna have to do something about that.'  
  
"So, why haven't you jumped his bones yet?"  
  
"Excuse me?" she sputtered, nearly choking on the sip of water she'd just taken.  
  
"Come on, Pez," Danny murmured. "He's so your type it's not funny. Brooding bad boy with a mysterious past."  
  
"I told you. We're just friends. I d-don't think of him that way."  
  
"Aha! You stuttered."  
  
"I did not!" Sara denied, flushing.  
  
"Uh-hunh, you sure did, Cleo."  
  
"Cleo?"  
  
"Yeah, as in Cleopatra, the Queen of Denial."  
  
"Okay, can we just drop this subject?" Sara gritted, remembering that Gabriel had called her the exact same thing just last night.  
  
"Touched a horny nerve, did I?"  
  
"I'm serious, Danny. I really don't feel like discussing my sex life with you."  
  
"Don't you mean lack of a sex life, Pez? Hey, you and I both know it's been a long dry spell."  
  
"Gee, Danny, I didn't know you kept such close track of my sexual activity," Sara grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.  
  
"More like inactivity. And you didn't answer my question: Why the hands-off approach with Nottingham? I get the feeling he'd be more than willing."  
  
"Geez, five minutes in an alley with the guy and you picked up on that?"  
  
"The eyes are the windows to the soul, Pez."  
  
"Oh, really? I'm pretty sure his girly-ass hair hid his 'soul' from you, Danny. Could it be what he said in Cantonese that tipped you off? By the way, what exactly did he say to you?"  
  
"Welcome to Sherwood Forrest," Danny smirked.  
  
"Yeah, uh-hunh. Besides, I'm pretty sure it was Robin Hood who said that."  
  
"Let's just say I know why he watches out for you, partner."  
  
"You think so, do you?" Sara murmured. She glanced at the clock. "Gabriel should be calling any minute now."  
  
Five minutes later, her cell phone rang. "Pezzini, go."  
  
"Hey, Chief. I got someone here who wants to talk to you," Gabriel said.  
  
"Hi, Aunt Sara."  
  
Sara felt her eyes tear up at the sound of her nephew's voice. "Hey, Joey. Listen, kiddo, I need to make this quick, so I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm listening."  
  
More to come. Thanks again for the feedback. It's very encouraging and, as an added bonus, amusing! Keep it coming! 


	33. Chapter 34

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around with them. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
Chapter 34.  
  
  
  
Ian Nottingham took an indirect route to his vehicle, keeping to nearly deserted back alleys whenever possible. The only people he saw or who saw him were the homeless. Over the past several months, these denizens of the trash-strewn alleys in the vicinity of the 11th Precinct had become accustomed to seeing the tall, black-clad man who moved with the silent grace of a big cat and who possessed the uncanny ability to merge with the shadows, becoming virtually invisible from one moment to the next. They never saw him after nightfall unless he wished to be seen, and rarely in the same place twice. Although they knew his name, they called him Shadow Man, or simply Shadow. He rarely spoke, preferring to listen, but when he did speak, his deep, quiet voice had the ability to calm even the most fearful and agitated among them. Often, he would give them money, but only if they promised to buy food, clothing, or medicine with it.  
  
The homeless were used to people avoiding eye contact with them, whether out of shame, fear, or a misguided sense of guilt. However, they soon learned that Shadow's habit of avoiding their gazes was not motivated by any of those things. On the rare occasions that he did make eye contact, the men and women living in those back alleys were struck by the depth of the sadness and loneliness in those enormous, oddly innocent hazel eyes. What they glimpsed there made them realize that having almost limitless wealth as well as a warm place to sleep every night did not mean happiness. Not even close. And so, when they saw him hurrying away from the alley next to the precinct that cold, blustery afternoon, his face a mask of pain, their hearts went out to him. They had noticed how he would spend hours in that alley, in all kinds of weather, hoping for a glimpse of the beautiful, green-eyed female detective who worked at the police station. And, unnoticed by the woman, they had witnessed how cruelly she treated him whenever he dared approach her, and how, like someone who has become far too used to being treated poorly, he took the abuse without complaint. But today, something had caused Shadow to retaliate instead of just taking her insults, and for the first time, the street people heard his voice raised in anger.  
  
Once out of sight of the furious woman and her companion, his stoic façade crumbled, and they feared for his sanity when they saw how he sagged against the brick wall of the alley and beat at his head with his fists, mouth open wide in a soundless scream of torment. They watched as he jumped, startled, then reached into his coat pocket and took out his cell phone, his tear-filled eyes widening in astonishment when he saw who was calling. They listened as he answered the call, his voice clipped and cold, and flinched when he savagely rejected the apology offered by the person on the other end of the line, hanging up. They saw how he began trembling after he did this, his face contorting with anguish, and then how he had to struggle to regain his composure, when, minutes later, the phone he still clutched in his gloved hand vibrated again. They observed the amazing transformation his haggard face and slumping body underwent as he listened to the woman he loved apologize again, and they felt a huge sense of relief as they realized that the Shadow Man's will to live had been restored to him in the nick of time. Only then did he become aware of them and their concern for him, reassuringly returning their relieved smiles and listening to them as they gave him advice on how to cure the fever he was obviously suffering from. When Shadow finally left them, they felt confident that they would see their kind and gentle benefactor again, and somehow, at least for a little while, their miserable existence didn't seem as harsh. The money he left behind for them to use to seek shelter from the coming storm saw to that.  
  
****  
  
When Ian reached the vicinity of his vehicle, he spent 15 minutes in the shadows of an alleyway carefully observing the surrounding area before approaching the SUV and unlocking it.  
  
He had parked near the sidewalk vendors again, and as he opened the driver- side door, he noticed the odd-looking fellow who'd sold him his hat and scarf the other night staring intently at him. When he saw that Ian's gaze was on him, the old man nodded. For some reason, the stranger's scrutiny did not alarm Nottingham, which would have been the case under normal circumstances. He merely inclined his own head in acknowledgement and got into the car.  
  
Outwardly, Ian was calm and collected; inwardly, he was seething with myriad emotions, elation chief among them. Sara cared for him! More importantly, she considered him her friend. And although it wasn't what he truly wished for, which was that she love him as deeply as he loved her, it was a start and it gave him hope that one day she might come to consider him to be more than a friend. Ian had been filled with shame at the way he'd allowed her to goad him into losing his temper in the alley next to the 11th Precinct. He had managed to convince himself that he'd ruined any chance of winning her respect and admiration with his churlish behavior, when, stunningly, she had called him to apologize. The white-hot flare of anger that filled him at her further chastisement caught him by surprise, and he blamed his high fever for the moment of insanity that made him reject her apology and hang up on her. Despair had swamped him as he realized that his worst fears were coming true: now that her nephew was almost out of danger, she was reverting to her antagonistic ways of old. With a heavy heart, he'd resigned himself to once again being regularly subjected to her insults and biting sarcasm. He could live with that, he told himself, as long as he could occasionally see her and be near her. But, truth be told, he'd felt almost suicidal at the thought of once again seeing suspicion and distrust in her beautiful green eyes every time they met. And then, miracle of miracles, she had called him back, and this time her apology had been undeniably sincere. All was right with his world again. Sara cared for him!  
  
A wave of exhaustion swept over Ian, accompanied by the renewed throbbing of his head. 'I'll just close my eyes for a minute and meditate,' he thought, shrugging out of his overcoat. 'Then I'll move the car to another location.' Although he was fairly certain he hadn't been followed, he was reluctant to take any chances by remaining in one place for any length of time. But he was so hot and so very tired. He closed his eyes.  
  
His vibrating phone awakened him. Groggily, he glanced at the dashboard clock and instantly became alert as he saw that it was 17:30; nearly three hours had elapsed since he'd gotten into the SUV.  
  
Taking his phone from his pocket, he squinted at the display and saw an unfamiliar number. "Ian Nottingham," he said, answering it.  
  
"Yeah, Mr. Nottingham, it's me, Alonzo."  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Brown."  
  
"Uh, good evening. Um, I called to tell you I just heard from Angel. He wants me to pull lookout duty tonight, starting at 7:00."  
  
"That is excellent news, Mr. Brown. Of course, you told him that you would be there."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Very good. Here is what you must do: report for duty as usual. The factory will be raided shortly thereafter, and you will be taken into custody. However, I promise that you will not be prosecuted. In fact, you will be well compensated for your cooperation in this matter. Also, I must warn you that cell phone activity in the vicinity of the ice factory will be monitored, so I will not be able to contact you and you should refrain from attempting to call me until after the drug bust takes place. I will arrange for someone to bail you out of jail."  
  
"Okay. Angel and his brother ain't gonna know it was me who gave them up, right?" the young man asked anxiously.  
  
"No. You and your family will not have to worry about reprisal. You have my word on that. Thank you for your call, Mr. Brown. I will be in touch with you soon." Ian hung up and then called Sara.  
  
"Pezzini, go."  
  
"Sara, Mr. Brown just called me. He is reporting for lookout duty at 19:00 hours," Ian told her.  
  
"That's great news, Nottingham."  
  
"I take it the decoy operation was a success."  
  
"Yeah, it went down as planned about an hour ago. Joey's safe and sound, and Joaquin's none the wiser. They even planted a false report of the shooting on the radio, in case Angel, Joaquin, and their gang at the abandoned factory were listening."  
  
"I am very happy to hear that young Joseph is safe."  
  
"His parents are very relieved, too. I'm gonna pass Alonzo's info along to the joint task force, and then I'll see you later, okay?"  
  
"First, let me give you Mr. Brown's cell phone number, just in case the task force decides to utilize Angel's beeper number," Ian said, reciting it from memory. "I should also tell you that I promised Mr. Brown that he would not be prosecuted for his part in this and that he would be bailed out tonight."  
  
"I'll be sure to take care of that. And thanks for the number." She paused, then lowered her voice. "How are you feeling, Nottingham?"  
  
"My headache is gone," he told her, realizing that it was true. "I managed to . . . meditate for a while, and I believe that slowed the rise of the fever somewhat."  
  
"Just hang on for a few more hours, and then we'll head to Westchester. Goodbye, Nottingham."  
  
"Goodbye, my Lady." Ian hung up. He glanced across the street, and saw the same sidewalk vendor looking in his direction. Abruptly, Nottingham got the strongest feeling that the old man had watched over him while he slept. He lifted a hand in farewell as he started the SUV, and the man nodded once again before turning away to help a customer.  
  
****  
  
Sara Pezzini hung up her phone. "That was Nottingham," she told her partner. "Our informant just called him to say he's been tapped for lookout duties starting at 7:00 tonight. I'm calling Captain Phillips and Mike."  
  
"That's good news. With any luck this'll all be over by 8:00, maybe 9:00 tonight," Danny said.  
  
Sara's phone call ignited a flurry of activity as the joint task force rapidly began laying the groundwork for the bust. Into the hubbub walked Gabriel Bowman.  
  
"Hey, Gabriel! Job well done," Sara said, hugging him. "Everything went fine. Joey should be arriving home shortly. They put him in a squad car about half an hour ago, and he told me he had a lovely visit with Amanda in spite of all the intrigue."  
  
"I guess your informant came through, judging by all of the excitement," Gabriel said, noting the swarming detectives and DEA agents.  
  
"Yeah, Nottingham called about 20 minutes ago," Sara said. "The bust will probably go down at around 8:00."  
  
The dark-haired young businessman glanced around to make sure nobody was within earshot or looking their way. "Here's your badge back, Detective Woo," he said, handing it to her partner.  
  
"Call me Danny, Gabriel. So, how'd you like being an undercover detective?" Danny asked him.  
  
"If it's all the same to you guys, I'll leave it to the professionals in the future. Scary to think all I had to do was flash your badge and school security let me in. But I thought the gig was up when I said 'unpaid library fines' after one of the security guards asked me why I wanted to speak to Joey in private. Luckily, the guy started laughing," Gabriel grinned.  
  
"As you intended, right?" Sara said, grinning back at him.  
  
"Actually, it's official: I'm pretty much useless under pressure. I honestly couldn't think of anything plausible to tell the guard. That was the first thing that popped into my head," the young entrepreneur admitted sheepishly.  
  
"Wow, and you're not even blond," Danny cracked, shaking his head.  
  
"What's that about being blond?" Jake McCartey asked, walking into the partners' office.  
  
"Nothing," Danny muttered. "Have you met Gabriel Bowman, Jake? He's a friend of ours."  
  
"Jake McCartey," the rookie detective said, shaking the younger man's hand. He turned to Sara and handed her a jacket that said "NYPD" in large yellow letters on the back. "Captain Phillips told me to give you this, Pez."  
  
Sara took it from him. "I guess this means Dante gave the okay for me to tag along," she murmured.  
  
"It's not like he had much choice. You really pulled the joint task force's bacon out of the fire with everything you did," Jake said, open admiration in his bright blue eyes.  
  
"No wonder Dante looks like he's been sucking on lemons," Sara smirked, glancing across the hall at their scowling captain.  
  
"Wanna ride along with me and Orlinsky, Pez?" Jake asked.  
  
"Sure. I guess you get to sit this one out, hunh, partner?" Sara said to Danny.  
  
He shrugged. "I'm not complaining. As soon as I get off, I'm going grocery shopping with Lee and the kids in preparation for the blizzard."  
  
"Lucky you. My sister-in-law invited me to ride it out in Brooklyn with them, and I took her up on it," Sara said. "I won't truly believe Joey's safe until Angel and Joaquin are behind bars and I can give the kid a big hug."  
  
"If all goes according to plan, that'll be pretty soon," Jake said.  
  
"Well, I'm gonna get going, Chief," Gabriel said. "A few of my clients want to do some business before the city gets shut down by the snowstorm. I'll speak to you later, okay?"  
  
Sara gave the dark-haired young man another hug, and for good measure, a kiss on the cheek. "Yeah, and thanks again for everything, Gabriel."  
  
He flushed with pleasure. "Sure, any time. And when you see Nottingham again, tell him I hope he feels better soon." With a last little wave, he walked out.  
  
"Nottingham," Jake said slowly. "Where have I heard that name before?"  
  
"Maybe through the grapevine," Danny smirked, giving Sara a sly look.  
  
"No, I don't think so," the rookie murmured.  
  
"Uh, so, do you know when we're moving into position for the bust?" Sara swiftly changed the subject.  
  
"Within the hour, I think," Jake said. "I'll stop by when we're ready to go."  
  
"Great." She heaved a sigh of relief when he left.  
  
"Where did he hear that name before if not from the gossipmongers?" Danny asked curiously. "And what's wrong with Nottingham?"  
  
"He's got the flu," Sara said, then sighed, deciding to come clean about the favor Jake had called in for her several months ago. "Shortly after I first met him, I tried to find out who Nottingham was, seeing as he kept turning up wherever I went, but I got nowhere through normal channels. You were out on vacation that week, and the rookie was partnering with me. Jake offered to ask a friend of his who works for the FBI to see what he could find on Nottingham."  
  
"And what did this friend find?"  
  
"Not very much. Guy keeps a low profile," Sara murmured.  
  
"Yeah, I guess so. Now that I think about it, I've read a lot about his boss, Kenneth Irons, but I don't recall ever reading or even hearing about Nottingham. Tells me he's very good at his job." Danny stood up and grabbed his coat. "I'm heading home. Call me and let me know how things went. I doubt we'll see each other tomorrow if the forecast turns out to be correct."  
  
"Goodnight, Danny." She watched as he briefly stopped by their captain's office before leaving. Dante threw her a sullen glare, and she ducked her head, quickly pretending to root around in her desk drawer for something.  
  
****  
  
Gabriel Bowman hurried down the cold, dark street, his bare hands shoved in his coat pockets. He was about a block from his apartment when he decided to stop off at the nearby bodega to buy some cold cuts and a few other things, given the coming storm. He glanced down the street and then did a double take. Parked at the curb were three delivery trucks.  
  
Ordinarily, he wouldn't have given this a second thought, but something about these particular trucks nagged at his memory. Frowning, he tried to figure out just what it was as he did his shopping. But it wasn't until he'd paid for his purchases, left the store, and returned to his apartment that realization dawned on him. On their sides, the trucks said "Hostess," "Entenmann's," and "Wonder Bread," and Gabriel was pretty sure that was exactly what Ian Nottingham had feverishly muttered in the alley next to the 11th Precinct earlier that afternoon.  
  
"There are no coincidences," Gabriel murmured. He picked up his phone and dialed Sara Pezzini's cell phone.  
  
"Pezzini, go."  
  
"Hey, Chief, it's me."  
  
"Hey, Gabe. What's up?"  
  
"This is gonna sound a little crazy, but I felt I should mention it to you. Do you remember what Nottingham said in the alley earlier today, before you guys, um, argued?"  
  
"He said a bunch of things, Gabriel. Could you be more specific?"  
  
"In a kind of distracted voice, he said 'Entenmann's, Wonder Bread, Hostess,' and after Danny left, you asked him what was with the Rain Man impression."  
  
"Yeah, I remember now. What about it?"  
  
"Well, just now I went to the bodega around the corner from my apartment and I noticed three delivery trucks parked across the street. Three Hostess, Entenmann's, and Wonder Bread delivery trucks."  
  
"I hate to break this to you, kid, but baked goods don't magically appear on the shelves of the supermarket. Somebody delivers them," Sara said snidely. "Look, I gotta go. We're moving into position."  
  
"Okay, but I didn't see any deliverymen, and I could be wrong, but don't deliveries usually take place in the morning?"  
  
"With the blizzard coming, they might be out late. I'll speak to you later, Gabriel. Bye."  
  
"Bye, Chief." Gabriel hung up, and started to put away his groceries. But he could not shake the feeling that what he'd seen was important. 'Better safe than sorry,' he thought, and dialed Ian Nottingham's number.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Bowman?" the assassin said, answering on the second ring.  
  
"Who was it who said 'There are no coincidences,' Nottingham?"  
  
"I believe it was me," Ian replied dryly. "Excellent work alerting young Joseph to the danger he was in this afternoon, by the way."  
  
"Uh, thanks. Anyway, as I was heading home after dropping off Danny's badge, I noticed something I thought I should bring to your attention," Gabriel said, and proceeded to tell him about the delivery trucks.  
  
"Interesting," Ian murmured after the younger man finished speaking. "Thank you for the warning, Mr. Bowman. I will keep my eyes open. Forewarned is forearmed."  
  
"So, you think it's strange, too?"  
  
"Yes. I could not put my finger on it before when I first noticed them, but now that I think about it, I believe deliveries to the grocery stores in the area usually take place on Wednesday. However, given the inclement weather headed this way, the distributors might have been forced to reschedule."  
  
"Yeah, I guess so. It's probably nothing."  
  
"Still, I appreciate your call, Mr. Bowman."  
  
"Sure. Listen, Nottingham, I hope you get that antidote soon. Sara would be pretty upset if, um, something were to happen to you."  
  
"You mean if I died."  
  
"Uh, yeah."  
  
"I have no intention of dying, Mr. Bowman."  
  
"I know, but when you took off like that in the alley earlier, you had me a little worried."  
  
"You perhaps better than anyone else should know that I could never abandon the Wielder. I am her Protector. I would fight to the death to defend her. She needs me." He paused. "However, I believe I have you to thank for her apology. Thank you," he said quietly.  
  
"Oh, well, she would have called you on her own eventually. I just guilted her into doing it sooner rather than later," Gabriel said dismissively.  
  
"I realize that I am in your debt, Gabriel. I will not forget what you did for Sara, young Joseph, and myself." Ian told him. "Thank you again for the warning. Goodbye."  
  
"Bye, Ian." His mind at ease, Gabriel hung up the phone. "'Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we've nowhere to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!'" he sang happily to himself as he finished putting away his groceries.  
  
****  
  
Ian kept an eye on the rearview mirror as he headed to the vicinity of the abandoned ice factory in Alphabet City, but didn't detect any sign of being following. Just to be safe, he chose a circuitous route and took the added risk of running a couple of red lights. Satisfied that he'd lost any tail that he might have had, he stashed the SUV in the conveniently empty garage of a building that had been a firehouse before being converted into a posh townhouse. The location was perfect: it was only a few blocks from the factory and possessed the added benefit of being hidden from view. With any luck, he would be long gone before the owners returned for the evening. Opening the hatch, Ian took out his katana and strapped it to his back, then he clipped various weapons and explosives to the harness he wore beneath his overcoat. Only then did he take to the streets, becoming just another shadow as he made his way to the decrepit warehouse across from the ice factory turned drug den.  
  
As he approached the factory, Ian spotted Alonzo Brown standing in the shadows of the warehouse's loading dock, but the other man never saw him or heard him, although he passed within several feet of him. Upon reaching his rooftop vantage point, Ian settled down to wait for the action to begin.  
  
The bust was accomplished without bloodshed. At 19:30, Ian saw a flurry of activity as the illegal inhabitants of the abandoned factory attempted to flee, apparently in response to a warning. Unfortunately, as no doubt had been intended, that warning came too late. With much screeching of tires, sirens whooping, and loudspeakers blaring, a phalanx of unmarked police cars and trucks descended on the area. Shouts of "Police," "DEA," and "Keep your hands where I can see them!" filled the air, as officers from the joint DEA and narcotics task force boiled out of the vehicles and surrounded the criminals.  
  
Through his night-vision scope, Ian spotted the Wielder as she cuffed a suspect and read him his rights. He recognized Joaquin Medina, and smiled with satisfaction, then winced, momentarily blinded, when floodlights abruptly illuminated the factory and the street in front of it. Suddenly, in the distance, his ears picked up the sound of a truck's gears grinding. Rising, he scurried to the opposite side of the warehouse's roof and peered into the alleyway behind it. His heart rate increased and he felt a surge of adrenaline as he saw the Entenmann's and Hostess delivery trucks parked there. As he watched, a third truck, the one that said Wonder Bread on it and that was still being driven by someone unfamiliar with the way its gears worked, pulled into the alley next to the others. The back doors burst open and eight heavily armed men dressed in fatigues, their features obscured by camouflage paint and night-vision goggles, jumped out and darted into the warehouse upon whose roof Ian stood.  
  
'Hmmm,' Nottingham thought, 'it appears as though my master's test has two parts.'  
  
  
  
More to come. As always, thanks for your feedback. Keep it coming! 


	34. Chapter 35

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 35.  
  
Sara Pezzini stared out the window of the unmarked police car, trying her best to ignore the sound of Frank Orlinsky's voice, or, more accurately, the sexist joke the ignoramus was telling Jake McCartey, who was driving. She had to restrain herself from reaching over and slapping Orlinsky upside his nearly bald head from where she sat in the back seat. On her right wrist, the Witchblade pulsed with anticipation at the prospect of a fight, making Sara shift restlessly in her seat.  
  
"I'll bet you're glad this is finally going down, hunh, Pez?" Jake said, his eyes briefly meeting hers in the rearview mirror.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"From what I've heard, this Angel Medina guy and his brother probably won't give up easily," the blond rookie detective said.  
  
"Fine by me."  
  
"Yeah, they'll probably come out shooting, which will end up saving the taxpayers some money, seeing as there won't be a trial," Orlinsky said to Jake, ignoring Sara, as he had done since she'd gotten into the car.  
  
"You wearing your vest?" Jake asked Sara.  
  
"I never leave home without it."  
  
"So, what are you gonna do tomorrow during our snow day?"  
  
Sara sighed, wishing he'd pick up on the fact that she did not feel like making small talk. "Sleep all day."  
  
"I rented a few movies and stocked up on munchies," Jake told her, oblivious to the fact that she hadn't reciprocated by asking him what his plans were. "Some companionship would be nice, though." His blue eyes met hers in the mirror hopefully.  
  
"I wouldn't be very good company, Jake, what with being unconscious from exhaustion. And when I woke up, I'd be PMSing. Or did you forget what I wrote on my desk calendar?" Sara asked, smirking.  
  
Jake flushed bright red. "Oh, yeah. Right."  
  
Orlinsky sniggered. "Take it from me, kid, you definitely don't want any part of that. Never trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die."  
  
"Why don't you ask Vicky if she'd like to join you, Jake?" Sara suggested, barely resisting the urge to stab Orlinsky with the Witchblade. 'I'd settle for watching him bleed for just a few minutes if it would make him shut the fuck up,' she seethed.  
  
The younger man looked thoughtful. "Now, there's an idea. Maybe I will."  
  
Suddenly, something made Sara twist around in her seat and glance out the rear window. Her eyes widened as she noticed the Entenmann's delivery truck several cars behind them.  
  
'It can't be following us,' she thought. 'Could it?' But when she looked again a few minutes later, the truck was still there. And it had been joined by a Hostess delivery truck. 'Shit! Gabriel was right!' She tried to get a look at the driver of the closest truck, but it was too far behind them.  
  
"What are you looking at?" Jake asked curiously.  
  
"Um, I think Mike Morgan is in the car behind us," Sara murmured.  
  
"Danny and him were at the academy together, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He seems like a decent guy."  
  
"Yeah, he is." Sara breathed a sigh of relief as a minute later the delivery trucks turned off onto a side street. 'I guess they weren't following us after all. Besides, Gabriel said there were three of them,' she thought.  
  
"Here we are, at the perimeter," Jake announced, pulling over.  
  
They were still about a mile away from the abandoned ice factory, at the very edge of the buffer zone that the joint task force had set up around it in deference to Angel Medina's infamous paranoia. It was 6:30 p.m.  
  
The three homicide detectives got out of the car and made their way to the command center, a truck almost identical to the delivery trucks Sara had noticed earlier, except devoid of any markings aside from lettering on the doors. The commanding officer of the 11th Precinct's narcotics squad, Captain Sheldon Phillips, was standing inside the van, looking over the shoulders of two seated DEA agents. The interior of the truck was filled with surveillance equipment of all types. Sara saw that the men were looking at video feeds on two monitors.  
  
"How'd you get a camera set up without tipping off Medina?" Sara asked curiously.  
  
One of the seated surveillance specialists glanced at her and smiled. "We have our ways, Detective."  
  
"We took the risk of putting them in place about an hour ago," Captain Phillips replied. "One is concealed inside the abandoned warehouse across the street, and we've got another covering the back of the factory," he said, indicating the other small monitor, which showed a rear view of the decrepit structure.  
  
"We got movement. Might be the lookout."  
  
They watched as a cab slowed down in front of the warehouse, and Alonzo Brown hopped out.  
  
"That's my informant," Sara confirmed as the young man disappeared out of camera view. Moments later, another man, apparently the lookout Alonzo was relieving, got into the waiting cab, which drove off.  
  
"Look, Captain," she said, "I promised the guy he wouldn't be prosecuted for his role in this. He knows he's gonna be taken into custody when the bust goes down, but I told him he'd be bailed out after a couple of hours. His name is Alonzo Brown."  
  
"I'll put in a call to central booking and tell them not to put him in the system. He knows to use his phone call to call you, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, when he does, call narcotics, and we'll have somebody post bail for him. Angel won't know it was him who tipped us off," Phillips told her. "Okay, listen up," he said, moving to stand in the doorway at the rear of the truck and raising his voice so that the assembled detectives and DEA agents could hear him. "Here's how it's gonna go down."  
  
Sara listened as the plan of action was outlined, becoming more and more restless as the minutes ticked by. The Witchblade had been spoiling for some action for three days now, and despite her exhaustion, she thought she might jump out of her skin if she didn't appease it soon. Jolts of adrenaline made her heart race and her muscles tense. At one point, she gasped as she felt the Blade begin to morph, and she barely managed to regain control of it. This rattled her, and not for the first time she wondered if she really should be here in the thick of things. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain why Angel and/or Joaquin Medina had died from stab rather than bullet wounds. But it was too late to back out now.  
  
"Whoa! What the hell was that?" she heard one of the agents monitoring the video feeds say. Luckily, after he was through speaking, Captain Phillips had moved away from the truck.  
  
"What was what?" the other man said.  
  
The first agent turned and pressed the rewind button on a VCR, then, a few seconds later the play button. A video image came up on yet another monitor. "There! I could swear I saw something move."  
  
Sara quietly stepped up into the truck and watched the small screen as the man rewound and played the recording again. For a split second, she saw a darker shadow glide swiftly across the very bottom of the frame. Glancing from the image to the live feed, the second agent shrugged. "Maybe it was the lookout guy's shadow. He's probably pacing in an effort to stay warm."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Then why don't we see it now live? Besides, the angle's wrong. The lookout is on the loading dock, and the camera's in a second- floor window. It would show someone walking along the street in front of the warehouse, but not on the loading dock. And there would need to be a light in back of the lookout guy in order to cast his shadow, you dope."  
  
Abruptly, the Witchblade swirled warmly on Sara's wrist. 'Nottingham,' she thought, with a smile.  
  
The second agent shrugged again. "Coulda been a pigeon. Those flying rats are always hanging out in abandoned warehouses. Johnson mentioned that he startled quite a few of them when he placed the cameras earlier."  
  
"Since when do pigeons fly around at night, genius?"  
  
"When something scares them, Einstein."  
  
"Yeah, but who or what scared them, Smart Guy?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe a stray cat."  
  
Unnoticed, Sara left the truck as the two men continued to snipe at each other. She was glad to know that her Protector was nearby, watching her back. Contrary to what the Witchblade desired, Sara was hoping the drug bust would be accomplished swiftly and without bloodshed, so that she could collect the feverish assassin and take him to Irons' estate in Westchester. So help her God, she would force the billionaire to administer the antidote to Nottingham -- at the point of the Blade if need be.  
  
At quarter after 7:00, one of the communications experts dialed Angel Medina's beeper number, making it seem as though the call came from Alonzo Brown's cell phone, issuing a warning to the inhabitants of the abandoned ice factory. The joint task force personnel climbed into their vehicles and then waited tensely for the word to mobilize. Ten minutes later, the order to surround the factory came.  
  
Once again, Sara rode in the backseat of a car driven by Jake McCartey, with Orlinsky riding shotgun. As they pulled up in front of the factory with lights flashing and siren blaring, they saw several men hastily exiting the building. The detectives jumped out of the car, guns drawn, shouting "Police! Show us your hands!"  
  
Sara immediately recognized Joaquin Medina, and she wasted no time in grabbing him.  
  
"Spread 'em, Medina," she growled, shoving the man against the unmarked police car.  
  
"Okay, okay, you got me, Mommy," the man said, leering at her.  
  
Sara patted him down, removing a .22-caliber handgun from his waistband. "Yeah, you got that right, Joaquin. You have the right to remain silent," she told him, handcuffing him. Spotlights were turned on, flooding the street and the factory with bright light. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney -- "  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know my rights, bitch," Joaquin snarled, interrupting her.  
  
Ignoring him, Sara continued reading him his rights. When she was done, she handed him off to a narcotics officer, who marched him off to a van, into which a number of other men were being loaded, among them Alonzo Brown. Briefly, she made eye contact with the young man, and gave him a tiny nod, which he returned before a DEA agent herded him into the van. Glancing around, she saw Jake McCartey handcuffing Angel Medina while Agent Atherton read him his rights while Orlinsky and Captain Phillips looked on. Angel was placed in the back of an unmarked car, accompanied by Agent Atherton, and driven away.  
  
'Sorry about the lack of violence and bloodshed, Witchy,' Sara thought at the sullenly glowing bracelet on her right wrist as she bagged the gun she'd taken off Joaquin as evidence.  
  
"Detective Pezzini?" Sara turned and saw a young, sandy-haired man approaching. Although he was now clad in a NYPD jacket and his dirt- smudged face was pale and drawn from exhaustion, she immediately recognized him from the Witchblade's vision as the undercover narc, Tommy Fuller.  
  
"Detective Fuller, it's good to see that you made it out in one piece," she greeted him.  
  
"Yeah, thanks to you," he said. "I'm pretty sure I owe you my life."  
  
"Glad I could help out, Detective," Sara told him modestly. "Oh, before I forget, I have something that belongs to you." She reached into her jeans pocket and extricated his wedding band, handing it to him.  
  
The young detective's eyes welled up as he took it from her and slipped it on his ring finger. "My wife thanks you, too," he murmured huskily.  
  
"Sure thing. Take care of yourself, okay?" Sara said, giving him a hug.  
  
"When you see Ian again, tell him Tommy says thanks," he whispered in her ear, returning her embrace.  
  
"I will," she told him. She watched as he went over to his commanding officer, who patted him on the back. Nonchalantly, she glanced up toward the nearby rooftops, but saw no sign of Ian Nottingham.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, the majority of the task force personnel had left to escort the prisoners back to the 11th Precinct, leaving behind mostly DEA agents, who were busy removing the drugs from the abandoned factory.  
  
"I guess we're done here," Jake McCartey said, ambling over to Sara where she leaned against their car. "I heard there's at least 50 kilos of heroin in there."  
  
"Thank God it won't make it to the streets," she murmured, heaving a weary sigh. She had taken off the rather thin NYPD jacket and put on her down coat in an effort to combat the cold. For the past few minutes, she'd been trying to figure out a way to ditch Jake and Orlinsky without raising suspicion, so that she could hook up with Nottingham.  
  
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire sliced through the cold night air.  
  
"That sounded like automatic weapons fire," somebody said.  
  
"Who's firing their weapon?" Captain Phillips demanded. "Report!" he snapped into his headset.  
  
"It sounds like it's coming from the roof of one of those buildings across the street, sir," someone else said.  
  
'Oh, my God! Nottingham!' Sara thought.  
  
"I'm gonna go check it out!" she said, and took off running toward an alley that ran along the west side of the dilapidated warehouse across from the ice factory.  
  
"Detective, wait!" Phillips shouted. "Dammit!" he cursed as she ignored him.  
  
Drawing her service weapon, Sara darted into the alley, which led to a wide, cobblestone street. She took a left turn, and jogged down the dark street, skidding to a stop when she saw the three delivery trucks parked in back of the warehouse.  
  
"Detective Pezzini, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Captain Phillips irate voice came from the earpiece of the headset that Sara had forgotten that she was wearing. "You're supposed to wait for backup!"  
  
Sara ignored him, and crept toward the trucks. She spotted a man standing on the stairs that led to the gaping back door of the warehouse. He was dressed in fatigues, his face was covered with camouflage greasepaint, and he wore night-vision goggles. Luckily, he wasn't looking in her direction at the moment, but she knew that he'd spot her if she tried to sneak up on him owing to the lack of cover. Then she remembered passing two rusting metal doors set in the ground back in the alley. Turning, she ducked back into the alleyway and retraced her steps until she found the doors. They were bolted from the inside, she discovered. Holstering her gun, she willed the Witchblade into the short stiletto form, jabbing the thin blade into the narrow slit between the two doors, and then yanking it downward.  
  
The screech of fatigued metal as it gave was covered by another round of gunfire, which echoed loudly in the confines of the alley. More bursts of automatic weapons fire hid the groaning of rusty hinges as she lifted one of the heavy doors. The pulsing red light of the Witchblade's blood- red stone revealed stairs leading downward.  
  
'At least I know Nottingham is still alive,' Sara thought grimly, descending the concrete steps into pitch-black darkness. 'Those trucks could conceivably carry eight to ten armed men each, so that means he's up against as many as 30 opponents. Those are pretty rotten odds, even for him. Maybe the Witchblade will level the playing field.' She eyed the fiery stone. 'Looks like you're gonna get that fight you wanted after all.'  
  
****  
  
Ian Nottingham coolly fought for his life on the roof of the abandoned warehouse. After the heavily armed men entered the warehouse, he had headed for the structure that housed the stairs that led to the roof, but his sharp hearing had picked up the sound of booted feet on the stairs, and he realized that that escape route was no longer open to him and that he would soon have company. Bullets kicked up the gravel in front of him when he started to approach the ladder that he had used to climb up to the roof, forcing him to take cover behind the metal housing that had once protected the warehouse's ventilation system, but not before he glimpsed the shooter leap onto the roof after having climbed that same ladder. Unclipping four smoke bombs from his harness, Ian pulled the pins and tossed them in the direction of the stair structure. They detonated, releasing billowing clouds of dark red smoke. Seconds later, the door to the stairs burst open, and several men came through, the first one laying down a burst of cover fire from an automatic weapon, probably a Kalashnikov rifle from the sound of it. Rising, Ian drew his katana and engaged his enemy.  
  
In less than five minutes, he had killed four men with his sword and incapacitated two others, sustaining only a shallow graze from a bullet to his right thigh in the process. He had quickly realized that these men were well trained and experienced fighters. They had simply never faced a combat-trained, expert swordsman who also happened to be genetically enhanced. Snatching the headset from one of the fallen men, he took a moment to put it on.  
  
"He's too fast, he's too fast! Get more firepower up here, now!" he heard a man say in Russian. Unfortunately for him, his voice brought Ian right to his position, and the cold, cold hazel eyes of the assassin were the last thing the man saw before a gloved fist knocked him unconscious.  
  
'Eight times three, plus three drivers: that's at least 27 men,' Ian thought, eyes searching the rooftop through the rapidly dispersing smoke. 'That means there's probably another man up here somewhere, and two more nine- or ten-man units inside.'  
  
The tiniest whisper of displaced air alerted Nottingham just in time. He ducked, and the knife the Russian threw barely missed him. The man came at him with another 12-inch blade, and in a blur of movement, Ian grabbed him by the right wrist, snapping it so that the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers, before throwing him up against the wall of stair structure, twisting his left arm up behind him savagely, eliciting a gasp of agony from the hapless mercenary. Ripping the man's headset from his head, Nottingham searched him for additional weapons, finding and tossing away two more knives, a pistol, and a stun gun.  
  
"Who sent you?" he asked the man in Russian, after turning off his own headset so that his interrogation would not be overheard.  
  
"Why don't you ask your lying, cheating dog of a boss that," the man spat in the same language.  
  
Mentally, Ian sighed. 'No surprise there.' He was pretty certain he knew exactly which vengeance-minded breakaway republic had sent this attack force. The Russians had more than a bone to pick with Kenneth Irons -- more like a whole stinking carcass. Their grievance involved an arms deal that hadn't gone well for them at all but had, of course, made Ian's master quite a bit wealthier. Never content to simply come out ahead on an insanely lucrative deal, Kenneth had undoubtedly arranged to have their noses rubbed in the fact that they had been duped. Apparently, the Russians had decided that retribution was at hand, starting with the attempted elimination of Irons' personal bodyguard.  
  
"How many of you are there?" Ian asked the man, forcing his left arm even higher, causing the man to yelp with pain.  
  
"Go to hell," the man breathed.  
  
Ian turned him around and punched him in the face, splitting his lip. "I do not want to kill you, but I will if I have to. Now, tell me how many are there?" he said, pressing the razor-sharp blade of the knife he now held against the man's jugular, drawing blood.  
  
"You will not kill me," the mercenary said, baring bloody teeth in a ghastly smile. His eyes flicked past Ian before calmly meeting his gaze again.  
  
Turning his head, Nottingham's heart skipped a beat as he spotted two men on the roof of the adjacent building, one of which was armed with a shoulder-mounted missile launcher. The other man was quickly loading the launcher with a stinger missile.  
  
"Ready to die, are you?" Ian asked his captive. "Well, much as I hate to disappoint you, I am not going to die today, and if you are very lucky, neither will you." With that he smashed his fist into the man's face again, rendering him unconscious, and then tossed him several feet away from the roof structure. Then Ian started running, heading for the edge of the roof. He was about five feet from it when he heard the distinctive sound of a missile being fired.  
  
Just as Nottingham leapt for the edge of the roof, the missile hit the structure where he'd been standing just seconds earlier, completely destroying it in an enormous fireball. The concussive force of the explosion threw Ian hard against the four-foot high wall of the roof, but then his momentum carried him over the edge, and he was falling to the ground, six stories below.  
  
More to come. As always, thanks for the feedback. I always appreciate it and look forward to reading it. Post more please! 


	35. Chapter 36

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Mores the pity.  
  
Chapter 36.  
  
Sara Pezzini heard voices echoing weirdly from somewhere above her. Whoever they were, they were not speaking English. 'Could be Russian,' she thought, as she slowly picked her way over the uneven, debris-strewn floor of the warehouse's basement. But whatever the language, Sara knew commands when she heard them, and from the sound of booted feet pounding the floor overhead, the troops were following orders.  
  
After stumbling over an unseen object for the third time, she decided to risk turning on her maglite. The glow cast by the Witchblade's pulsing red stone was insufficient to penetrate the inky darkness, and she didn't want to twist an ankle or take a nasty fall. Several extremely large rats skittered for cover as the flashlight's beam played over the frigid, cavernous room. She spotted stairs, and headed for them. A sagging metal door was at the top, and Sara eased it open, wincing as the hinges creaked loudly. It was minimally brighter here on the first floor of the abandoned warehouse, and she flicked off her maglite.  
  
Remembering the sentry at the back door, Sara headed toward the rear of the building with the intent of neutralizing him. She didn't want to chance the man surprising her later. She saw his silhouette in the open doorway and crept up behind him.  
  
"Hey," she said, and when he turned to gape at her, she smashed her suddenly metal-clad right fist into his face. He dropped like a stone. 'Now he won't alert his comrades when the cavalry shows up,' she thought, hoping this wouldn't happen until Nottingham could get away. She didn't want to think about the consequences should he be taken into custody by the NYPD. She had turned the volume way down on her headset, but she could hear the excited babble of voices, as well as her name being called repeatedly. There wasn't much time before reinforcements arrived, and she realized that the fact that she had broken contact had lent added urgency to the situation. But somehow she would just have to come up with a plausible explanation for her disappearance later.  
  
She headed further back inside the warehouse and had started up to the second floor, when she heard footsteps pounding down the stairs toward her.  
  
"Hello, boys," she said as several soldiers came into view, "meet my little friend!" She willed the Witchblade into the mace form and used it to knock the first man into the second, who fell against the third. Leaping over the tangle of men, she agilely ducked the blows of the fourth man, dealing him a vicious backhand before holding up the gauntlet to deflect the bullets that a fifth mercenary opened fire with from further up the stairs. The man's eyes widened as he noticed her metal-encased hand and forearm. Sara used that moment of surprise to will the gauntlet into the broadsword form before running him through.  
  
At this first taste of blood, the Witchblade's red stone eye flared bright, casting an eerie glow over the gloomy interior, eliciting gasps of amazement from the remaining men.  
  
'Special effects! Cool!' Sara thought, but then the bloodlust rose in her, and she had to struggle to keep a berserker rage from consuming her.  
  
Because of their proximity and the narrowness of the stairs, the men couldn't open fire without hitting each other, which worked to Sara's advantage. Pulling the sword from the body of the shooter, she advanced on the three men behind him, an anticipatory grin on her face. One of them pulled a knife and threw it at her, and metal clanged on metal as she effortlessly deflected it, as she did the bullets that the man desperately fired at her from his automatic pistol. When she kept coming, the men finally decided to beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. Sara sensed movement behind her, and lashed out with her foot. One of the two men she had knocked down on the stairs below her had finally managed to extricate himself from his unconscious comrade's body and had drawn his pistol but she knocked it from his hand and then kicked him in the head, sending him tumbling down the steps. The other mercenary also regained his feet and pointed his rifle at her, but cursed as it jammed.  
  
Sara solemnly shook her head at him. "That's why you should always buy American, Comrade," she said before clubbing him over the head with the Witchblade.  
  
She turned and started up the stairs in pursuit of the other soldiers, but all of a sudden a tremendous explosion shook the building.  
  
'Holy shit! That sounded like a grenade or maybe even a missile!' she thought. 'I hope Nottingham didn't just get blown to smithereens.' The sound of booted feet rapidly descending the stairs reached her, and then a small metal object came bouncing down the stairwell.  
  
'Tear gas canister,' Sara instantly recognized, 'I'm outta here!' She leapt over the railing, landing at a run, and had almost reached the back door when the canister exploded, releasing a billowing noxious cloud. Darting outside, she jumped over the unconscious guard, scrambled down the stairs, and dashed around the corner of the building. But she skidded to a stop, her heart sinking, as she saw a crumpled, black-clad form lying motionless on the pavement.  
  
****  
  
Ian Nottingham had jumped from a height of six stories successfully only once before in his life, and that had been a carefully controlled descent. Now, however, he was hurtling toward the unforgiving concrete below at tremendous speed. Catlike, he twisted his body in midair and reached out with his gloved left hand, somehow managing to grab hold of the very bottom rung of the metal ladder that was attached to the building. His left shoulder screamed in protest as it was abruptly forced to bear his entire weight, and he crashed into the side of the warehouse with bruising force. He hung there for a moment, stunned, before letting go, and dropping the rest of the way to the ground. His powerful legs took the brunt of the landing, but his injured right leg buckled, and he was forced to do a shoulder roll -- on his already damaged shoulder, naturally. He lay sprawled there on the cold pavement of the alley, simultaneously trying to catalog his injuries and temporarily banish the pain of them as he'd been taught to do, so that he could continue to fight if need be, or flee if the odds were too heavily stacked against him.  
  
Dislocated left shoulder, he identified, which, although excruciatingly painful, was not terribly debilitating, especially once the joint was popped back in. There were also cracked, possibly broken ribs, again on the left side. He took a deep breath and from the sharp pain this caused, he suspected at least one fracture. Not good, but, again, not insurmountable utilizing the pain-control techniques that even now were compartmentalizing the suffering. Oh, yes, and the bullet graze to the right thigh. It was bleeding profusely, but the blood loss was acceptable. Not bad for having been outnumbered nearly 30-to-1 as well as blown off a six-story building. But he was definitely in flee mode. There were at least 19 Russians still unaccounted for, and he was in no condition to fight them.  
  
'I should probably get up now and run away,' Ian thought dreamily, cognizant of the fact that he'd already wasted precious seconds lying there. Vaguely, he realized that his raging fever had something to do with the lack of urgency he felt. 'Sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat were probably not what Dr. Immo had in mind when he said I should try to remain as calm and still as possible,' he mused.  
  
"Oh my God, Nottingham! Can you hear me?" Sara ran over to the prone assassin and knelt beside him.  
  
"Yes, Sara, I can," he surprised her by responding almost conversationally.  
  
"Can you get up? 'Cause I think we're about to have company."  
  
"I think so." Far too slowly for her liking, the black-clad man rolled over onto his right side and got to his feet.  
  
"Which way? Which way?" Sara murmured, examining Nottingham's face worriedly. Even in the dimness of the alley, she could see how pale he was and that his eyes had a glazed, disjointed quality to them.  
  
"This way," Ian said, heading toward the back of the warehouse.  
  
"But they're gonna be coming out the back door any second!" she protested.  
  
"That will be difficult for them to do if there is no exit," he murmured, removing something from his coat.  
  
Pulling the pin with his teeth, Ian lobbed a grenade into the open doorway, hearing panicky shouts as the soldiers that had been heading for the door realized what the object was. "Run, Sara!" Ian said, tossing another grenade under the delivery trucks, before turning and dashing down the cobblestone street hard on the heels of the fleeing Wielder. Seconds later, two explosions rocked the warehouse scant moments apart.  
  
Where are we going?" Sara asked, glancing behind them at the blazing trucks.  
  
"My car is in a garage only a few blocks from here," Ian said, holding his left arm tightly against body. Every step sent jolts of agony through his abused body, but he forced himself to keep up the brisk pace.  
  
The Witchblade suddenly pulsed hotly, and Sara stopped short, glancing around the dark street for any sign of danger. In the near distance, they heard the distinctive roar of a helicopter. Within seconds, it came to hover almost directly overhead, and a bright, white spotlight lit up the cobblestones only about 30 yards from them.  
  
"Quick, let's duck in here!" Sara grabbed Nottingham's sleeve, dragging him toward a gaping doorway, failing to notice the way he flinched in pain. Moments later, the spotlight swept the street where they had been, before continuing up the passageway.  
  
"I don't think they spotted us," Sara said, poking her head out and peering up at the sky after a couple of minutes. She glanced at the Witchblade's stone and saw that it had become dark again. "Let's keep going. They're probably gonna do another sweep," she told Ian.  
  
They ran down the street for another two blocks and then headed north, keeping to the alleys for as long as possible. When they were forced to take to a more busily traveled street, they slowed to a walk in an effort to blend in with the other pedestrians.  
  
"How much further?" Sara asked Nottingham, who had not spoken for some time. She glanced at the street nervously as a squad car went zooming by, lights flashing and siren whooping.  
  
"Another block," he said, and she saw that his face was a sickly grayish color except for bright flags of red along his high cheekbones.  
  
"How bad are you hurt?" she whispered, noticing for the first time the hitch in his stride and how rigidly he held his left arm against his body.  
  
"My injuries are not life-threatening," he said. "My car is in here. The door is unlocked but you are going to have to lift it," he said, indicating the private garage.  
  
"Nice," Sara murmured, after raising the door and looking around. "What would you have done if the people who live here had come back?" she asked curiously.  
  
"Offered them an apology for using their garage without their permission and a lot of money for their trouble," he murmured. "Close the door for a few minutes. I need you to do something before we leave."  
  
Sara did as he asked and then looked expectantly at him.  
  
"My left shoulder is dislocated. I need you to relocate the joint," he told her.  
  
"Just tell me what to do," Sara said, wincing sympathetically.  
  
"Grab my wrist with both hands, tightly. When I say 'go,' I want you to yank on my arm as hard as you can. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yeah." She took hold of his left wrist in a firm grip. "I'm ready."  
  
Heedless of his injured ribs, he took a deep breath. "Go!"  
  
Sara pulled hard on his arm, and Ian's world grayed with agony. 'Hmmm, broken left clavicle,' a small part of his brain identified, as one jagged suffering was supplanted by another. The fracture's existence had been masked by the pain of the dislocated shoulder, but now it was making itself known with a vengeance. It took a tremendous effort, but he finally managed to distance himself from the pain utilizing techniques he'd spent years learning. He opened his eyes to find the Wielder staring at him in concern.  
  
"Okay?" she asked gently.  
  
"Yes, but I must immobilize my arm." He handed the SUV's keys to her. "There is a first-aid kit in the trunk. In it, you will find a sling. Could you get it for me, please?"  
  
"Sure," she said, taking the keys and disarming the car's alarm. "Who were those guys back there and what the hell did you do to piss them off, Nottingham?" she asked as she went around to the rear of the vehicle.  
  
"They are Russians, from one of the breakaway republics. However, their grievance is with my master. I believe I was merely an obstacle that they decided to try to eliminate first."  
  
"Figures. Freakin' Irons!" Sara muttered, opening the trunk. She found the first-aid kit, which was the size of a large briefcase, and brought it out, setting it on the hood of the car. "Well, what did he do to deserve this? And knowing him, he definitely had it coming."  
  
"Mr. Irons deliberately sold them a large cache of shoddily made weapons," he told her.  
  
"And now they want revenge." Sara shook her head, then gave a low whistle. "This is some first-aid kit, Nottingham. It's practically a mobile hospital. Here's your sling." After watching him fumble with it for a couple of minutes, she said "Here, let me help you put it on."  
  
Out of necessity, she had to lean very close to him and reach around him as she adjusted the sling's straps.  
  
"You always smell so good," he murmured, inhaling the clean scent of her gleaming, chestnut hair.  
  
"Uh, thank you," she said, pulling back to look at his flushed face. She reached up to touch his forehead, and he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, closing his eyes.  
  
"You're burning up, Nottingham. We've got to get you to Westchester right away," she said softly, alarmed by how hot he was.  
  
He shook his head. "We cannot go there. It is too dangerous. Some of the Russians might have escaped or been held in reserve for an attack on my master. The estate is the next logical target, and I am in no condition to battle them."  
  
"But you need that antidote right now, Nottingham!" Sara protested. "Call Irons and tell him what happened. Ask him to meet you at my place with the antidote."  
  
Again Ian shook his head. "The Russians were following you, Sara. They obviously had intel on you and had been informed of the fact that I would be shadowing you."  
  
Sara stared at him. "But who gave them --?" Then it dawned on her, and her face became stormy. "Kenny's gonna get a good talking to, I can promise you that," she growled. "Not only did he poison you, but he sicced angry Russians on you! Nobody does that to my Protector, damn it!"  
  
"I first noticed those delivery trucks this morning, when they drove past the 11th Precinct," Ian told her, inordinately pleased by her words. "Then, earlier this evening, Gabriel called to tell me that he saw them parked a few blocks from there. However, they did not follow me here, of that I am certain, so that means they must have followed you. They most likely have your home address, too."  
  
Reluctantly, Sara nodded. "Gabriel tried to warn me, too, but I dismissed it as the product of an overactive imagination. Then I noticed two of the trucks behind us on the way over here, but when they turned off onto a side street, I thought I was imagining things, too."  
  
"The Russians must have been monitoring the police band," Ian postulated. "When they discovered the location of the drug bust operation and realized you were taking part in it, they knew I would be nearby. One of their scouts must have spotted me on the roof of the warehouse, and amidst all of the noise of the drug bust, the mercenaries were able to get into position without me noticing. By the time I realized something was wrong, they had cut off my escape routes. I managed to take out eight of them, but then they fired a stinger missile at me from an adjacent building. I barely made it off that roof alive."  
  
"Well, I'm glad you did, but unless you receive that antidote soon, it's not gonna matter," Sara told him. "By the way, I eliminated five men inside the warehouse. And that grenade of yours probably did some damage, too. Plus, by now, the NYPD, bomb squad, and FBI are on the scene. I highly doubt the rest of the men in that warehouse managed to escape, especially since you destroyed their getaway vehicles. Now, we've got to figure out a way to hook up with Irons, and soon. Is there any place you can think of that might be safe for us to hide out, someplace close? Then we can call him and tell him to meet us there with the antidote."  
  
The buzz of fever in his brain had risen to nearly deafening levels, and Ian was finding it more and more difficult to think clearly. He was also uncertain how long he could keep the pain of his injuries at bay, but he knew he could not afford to let his control lapse until they found a refuge.  
  
"Wait, I've got an idea. Let's get going," Sara said, opening the garage door. "We can be there in less than an hour. You can call Irons on the way, and I'll call Jake and let him know I'm okay," she told him. "I'll drive."  
  
"Where are we going?" Ian asked.  
  
"You'll see," was all Sara would say.  
  
More to come. Thanks for your feedback everybody! I'm extremely grateful! Keep it coming! 


	36. Chapter 37

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing around. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 37.  
  
Sara put the well-stocked first-aid kit back in the trunk and then got behind the wheel of the SUV. She watched as Nottingham slowly and carefully folded his battered body into the passenger seat. He flinched, grimacing, when he reached to pull the car door closed, his gloved right hand going to his left ribcage.  
  
"Let me get that," Sara said, getting out and going around the car to shut the door. "Sore ribs?" she observed, sliding behind the wheel once more.  
  
"Yes," Ian said, pulling off his hat and rubbing his face tiredly. "Three, maybe four, cracked, possibly one or two fractured. Eventually, they will need to be taped." 'I wonder if she would think less of me if I were to start moaning?' he thought idly. 'Just a little whimpering instead of yelling like I really, really want to. Yelling would probably freak her out. No! No whimpering or yelling, Nottingham. You've got to hold it together for just a little while longer,' he told himself sternly.  
  
Sara stared at him in concern, realizing that he must be in tremendous pain. But, to his credit, he had barely winced when she had popped his dislocated shoulder joint back in, something that would have incapacitated most people. She had no idea how he had managed to survive the six-story plummet to that alley, not to mention the rooftop battle with eight heavily armed men, relatively unscathed. Unless he was bleeding to death internally but putting on a brave front. He was awfully pale, except for those flushed cheeks, and his eyes had a faraway look in them that worried her.  
  
Sara started the car and pulled out of the townhouse's garage. Putting it in park, she hopped out of the SUV and closed the garage door behind them.  
  
"Where else are you hurt, Nottingham?" she asked him, getting back in the car. Two more police cars sped by, followed closely by a fire engine, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Sara turned the SUV in the opposite direction, staying within the speed limit as she headed toward the West Side.  
  
"I also suffered a bullet graze to the upper right thigh. It is bleeding, but so far the blood loss is negligible. I doubt it will even require sutures, merely disinfecting and bandaging," he told her. "That is all, aside from assorted scrapes and contusions."  
  
"That's more than enough, don't you think? I'd like to blow Irons off a freakin' building and see how he likes it," she muttered, scowling. "Call him, Nottingham. Now."  
  
Ian sighed, dreading the forthcoming conversation. He fumbled for his cell phone, which was in the left pocket of his overcoat, finally extricating it.  
  
"Yes, Ian?" Irons answered on the first ring.  
  
"With the help of the joint DEA and narcotics task force, the Wielder successfully captured the Medina brothers, master. Her nephew is finally safe," Ian informed him.  
  
"I see. Where are you now?"  
  
"In my vehicle, sir."  
  
"Where in your vehicle, Ian?" Irons asked, impatience coloring his cultured voice.  
  
Nottingham looked out the window. "Ludlow Street, no, Orchard Street. Now, Eldridge Street."  
  
"All right, that's enough of that. Where are you going, and what is the matter with you?"  
  
"I do not know where I am going," he answered truthfully. "As for what is the matter with me, I am suffering from an extremely high fever as well as numerous injuries incurred during my battle with an attack force of Former Soviet Union mercenaries that you so thoughtfully arranged to have ambush me."  
  
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line. "I am watching the aftermath of that conflict on the news as we speak," Irons murmured. "There are reports that a female homicide detective is missing at the scene. Tell me, Ian, do you happen to know anything about that?"  
  
"Yes, sir. The Wielder came to my aid, breaking contact with the joint task force, which was in the process of finishing up the drug bust operation across the street from the warehouse when the Russians attacked me."  
  
"And where is the Wielder now, Ian?"  
  
Ian squinted out the window. "Chinatown. No, wait, the Financial District."  
  
Sara had heard enough. She reached over and snatched the phone from Nottingham, who had a loopy grin on his face. "Have you clued into the fact that he needs that antidote yet, Irons? And you're gonna give it to him, you got that?" she snarled.  
  
"Ah, Detective Pezzini! You've managed to cause quite a bit of excitement with your heroics," Kenneth Irons said. "I'm curious: how are you going to explain your disappearance to your commanding officer?"  
  
"Let me worry about that, Kenny. You should be worrying about your bodyguard. He's gonna die unless he receives that antidote within the next few hours. As I understand it, the deal was he keeps me safe until I take down Angel and Joaquin Medina, with a little extracurricular activity thrown in courtesy of you and some majorly pissed off Russians. He kept up his end of the bargain. Now it's your turn, you conniving bastard."  
  
"Temper, temper, Sara. It's truly touching how protective you are of my Ian. Very well, bring him to the estate, and I will have Dr. Immo administer the antidote."  
  
The Witchblade flared to life, practically putting up a stop sign. "Um, I don't think that's such a good idea, Kenny. You see, there's no telling how many of those Russians are still on the loose, and I'm pretty sure they're coming after you next. Too bad you don't have your personal bodyguard there to protect you, hunh? Thanks to you, he's in no shape to fight anybody. In fact, it's a miracle he made it off the roof of that warehouse alive. By the way -- and I don't know why I'm telling you this since Nottingham wasn't given any advance warning -- these guys have shoulder-mounted missile launchers and aren't shy about using them. No, we're gonna have to meet someplace else."  
  
"I'm afraid my security team is recommending that I avoid going out in public for the time being, Sara. But I will send Dr. Immo to retrieve Ian via helicopter. Meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour." Irons hung up.  
  
"Sonofabitch!" Sara fumed. "He's trying to dictate where we're gonna meet. Well, I've got news for him!" She pressed redial, but the phone just rang and rang. "Shit! Goddamn him!" she swore.  
  
"Where does he want us to meet him?" Ian asked, taking his phone from her.  
  
"Like the spineless coward he is, he's not gonna risk showing his face while those Russians are still out for his blood. He's sending a Dr. Immo in a helicopter to pick you up. We're supposed to meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in an hour," she told him. She glanced at the assassin's haggard face. "I don't trust him, Nottingham. I'm gonna take you someplace safe, and then I'll go meet this Dr. Immo and get the antidote from him."  
  
"I want to go with you, Sara," Ian told her. "It could be a trap."  
  
"Yeah, well, you're in no condition to do anything about it even if it is. No, you're gonna lay low, and I'll go check it out. I promise that I'll be extremely cautious."  
  
"I do not like the fact that you are putting yourself in danger for me, my Lady. Mr. Irons would love nothing more than to take the Witchblade from you. Saving my life is not worth the risk you are taking."  
  
"Would you stop with the 'I am unworthy' crap, Nottingham? You're my Protector. Who better for me to look out for?" Sara told him impatiently.  
  
'Some Protector I am,' Ian thought morosely. 'She is being forced to come to my aid yet again. Will I never be strong and, and . . . Protector-like in her eyes?'  
  
Sara suddenly realized that it would take well over an hour for them to reach her intended destination and then for her to get to the heliport. Also, Nottingham needed medical attention for his ribs and bullet wound, but she couldn't risk taking him to a hospital because they were required by law to report any gunshot wounds. Then she had an idea.  
  
"Slight change in plans, Nottingham," she murmured, taking a right turn and heading uptown. She fished out her cell phone, putting on the headset that she found between the two front seats, next to the thermos of peppermint tea, and plugging it into the phone before dialing the number.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Vicky, it's me, Sara."  
  
"Hey, girlfriend! What's shaking? Ready for the blizzard?"  
  
"I guess you haven't been watching the news," Sara murmured.  
  
"What? Don't tell me they called off the blizzard? Darn! I was sorta looking forward to a couple of snow days."  
  
"No, no, as far as I know we're still gonna get creamed by the storm. I was talking about the big brouhaha in Alphabet City. Turn on the TV and you'll see what I'm talking about. You're probably gonna hear that a female detective is missing at the scene. That would be yours truly."  
  
"Funny, but you don't sound like you're missing," Vicky said. Sara heard the sound of a television in the background. "Wow, that's some fire! Ewww, looks like there's a bunch of fatalities, too. I sure hope they don't end up in our morgue. I hate autopsying crispy critters. Wait a sec, they're saying the warehouse fire is right across from the factory where the drug bust that Jake took part in went down earlier. You were there, too?"  
  
"Yeah. Look, Vic, I need to ask you for another huge favor. I'm about ten minutes from your place. I'll explain everything when I get there, okay?"  
  
"Sure. See you in a few minutes, Sara."  
  
"Are you certain you can trust her?" Ian asked her when she hung up.  
  
"Positive," Sara said without hesitation. "You need medical attention, and Vicky's a doctor. Plus, she won't alert the authorities about the GSW like a hospital emergency room would. While she's fixing you up, I'll head over to the heliport and get the antidote. She can administer it to you when I get back, then we'll head someplace safe where you can hole up for a few days."  
  
"That is if you are not walking into a trap," Ian pointed out.  
  
She shrugged. "'Trust in the Witchblade.' Isn't that what you're always telling me, Nottingham? Well, it's never steered me wrong before, so I'm gonna play it by ear, uh, bracelet. If something smells wrong, I won't go near that heliport."  
  
"I am very glad to hear that you are beginning to work with the Witchblade, my Lady. You will become a far more formidable foe once you have fully accepted your destiny as a True Wielder."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm still not entirely convinced that it is my destiny, but I am beginning to realize that this thing has a mind of its own. The bloodlust nearly took over back there in that warehouse. And it scared me because I almost couldn't control it and because . . . it excited me," Sara admitted softly.  
  
"Lust is a powerful thing," Nottingham said, and his feverish gaze met hers. "It has caused even the wisest and most civilized of men to commit atrocities and to wreak havoc on their fellow man."  
  
"Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about bloodlust, Nottingham?" Sara muttered, feeling her face grow warm.  
  
"'The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action; and till action, lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; past reason hunted; and no sooner had, past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, on purpose laid to make the taker mad: mad in pursuit, and in possession so; had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; a bliss in proof, and proved a very woe; before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell,'" Nottingham quoted, biting back a groan as his groin suddenly tightened. 'Down boy!' he thought exasperatedly. 'I'm dying, and yet I still want her so badly, I ache!'  
  
"Again with the gloomy Shakespeare? Don't you know any light, happy quotations?" Sara complained, frowning.  
  
"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and gives life to thee,'" Ian replied.  
  
"Better," she murmured, his low, husky voice making her quiver in response way down low. "I guess in between learning how to kill people a thousand different ways, you had time to study up on Shakespeare."  
  
"Mr. Irons envisioned us as poet warriors. We were thoroughly schooled in all of the intellectual arts: literature, philosophy, art history."  
  
"We?"  
  
"The members of my former Special Forces unit, the Black Dragons. They were my master's brainchild. Vorschlag Industries underwrote the cost of the training and . . ."  
  
"And?" she prompted when his words trailed off.  
  
"We were subjected to experimental drug therapies, meant to enhance our intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, aggression, and, most important of all, obedience. Vorschlag supplied the psychotropic pharmaceuticals."  
  
"I get the feeling the experiment wasn't a success."  
  
Ian nodded, his drawn features taking on a look of profound sorrow. "Most of the Dragons became unstable. There were several violent outbursts and suicides. The project was scrapped, and the surviving members were given honorable discharges."  
  
"Do you know what happened to them?"  
  
He heaved a sigh filled with soul-deep weariness, and she saw that his flushed cheeks were wet. "I never saw any of them again. Before joining the Special Forces, I was never allowed to have any friends. But those men became like brothers to me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was part of a family. There was nothing we would not do for each other. Then the drugs started to take hold, and their personalities began to change. Many of them started to exhibit signs of paranoid schizophrenia and other psychoses. After a while, they became like strangers." He shook his head, wiping the tears from his face. "After the Black Dragons were dismantled, I thought I had become incapable of forming friendships. Until recently, that is. A part of me that I was certain had been destroyed has come alive again. Thanks to you, my Lady."  
  
'Oh, Kenny, you have an awful lot to answer for,' Sara thought angrily, regretting having made Nottingham dredge up what were obviously extremely painful memories for him.  
  
"Here we are at Vicky's," she said, pulling into a parking space around the block from her friend's apartment. "I'll get the door for you." Sara hopped out and opened the passenger-side door for him, then went around to the back and opened the hatch, removing the first-aid kit.  
  
"Is that you, Sara?" Vicky asked, moments after Sara pushed the button labeled 'V. Po' on the apartment building's intercom.  
  
"Yeah, and I brought along a friend who needs your help."  
  
"Come on up." A buzzer sounded, and Sara pushed open the door.  
  
Nottingham leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, as they rode up to the 11th floor. When the doors opened, he straightened and followed her down the hallway, moving stiffly.  
  
Vicky poked her head out her open door as they neared her apartment. "Hey, Sara."  
  
"Hey, Vic. This is a friend of mine, Ian Nottingham. Nottingham, Vicky Po."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Ian. Come on in," Vicky said, opening the door wide.  
  
"Vicky, we need your medical expertise," Sara said the moment her friend closed the door behind them. "Nottingham tangled with some bad guys at that warehouse, and he's pretty banged up. He thinks he's got a couple of broken ribs and he's bleeding from a bullet wound to the thigh. I need you to fix him up while I run an errand. Think you can handle that?" she asked, eyeing the wineglass the other woman held.  
  
"Apple juice," Vicky said, noticing the look. "I've been sober for nearly five months, thanks to you and that program you arranged for me to join without the job finding out. Let's take a look at those ribs, shall we, Ian? What's wrong with your arm?" she asked him.  
  
"My shoulder was dislocated. Sara relocated the joint, but it is extremely sore," he told her, glancing around the cozy, neat apartment. Although Sara claimed the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner could be trusted, he was reluctant to divulge the true extent of his injuries to her, so he neglected to mention his broken collarbone.  
  
"Ouch! I'm afraid it's gonna hurt like the dickens to take off your coat and shirt so that I can tend to your ribs. Do you have any heavy-duty painkillers? I don't have anything stronger than aspirin and Tylenol in the house."  
  
Sara set the first-aid kit on the kitchen countertop. "Everything you'll need is in here, Vic. I've got to get going. I'll be back in a little while."  
  
"Sara, please be careful," Ian said, barely restraining himself from pleading with her not to go.  
  
"I will. I'll be back before you know it. Thanks a ton for this, Vicky. I owe you."  
  
"Sure. But you'd better call the job and let them know you're okay, Sara. They think you're still in that burning warehouse. There's firefighters risking their lives trying to find you and anyone else in there," Vicky said, glancing toward the small TV on the counter, which was on but had the sound muted. It showed a massive conflagration that was barely recognizable as the warehouse that Sara had been inside less than an hour ago.  
  
"I'll do that on the way," she promised. "See you in about 20 minutes."  
  
Once she was back in the SUV, Sara put the headset back on, and checked her voicemail. There were several increasingly frantic messages from Danny, Gabriel, and Jake, as well as a single irate one from Bruno Dante. She called Jake McCartey first.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Jake, it's me, Sara."  
  
"Pez? Oh, thank God you're all right! Why the hell did you run off like that? Captain Phillips wouldn't let anybody go after you until backup arrived, and then we couldn't find any sign of you. We thought you were trapped inside the building! Are you hurt?" he said in a rush.  
  
"Aside from a lump on my head, I'm fine. I, um, managed to find a way into the warehouse through the basement. It was pitch black down there, but I didn't want to risk turning on my flashlight and alerting somebody to my presence. Well, I must have tripped over something and hit my head, 'cause next thing I know, I woke up on the ground with a wicked headache, smelling smoke. I got out the same way I got in and tried to head back to the task force's position, but the way was blocked by the fire. I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly, because I ended up jumping in a cab and heading to Vicky's. She says I might have a mild concussion," Sara told him, hoping he would buy this rather implausible story.  
  
"Well, I'll let Phillips and Dante know that you're okay. It's a good thing you had Vic check you out, but you should go to a hospital and let them look you over. Where are you now?"  
  
"I'm heading home," she lied. "I'm exhausted. I'm sorry I worried you guys," she told him. "Vicky promised to call me every half an hour for the next few hours to make sure I didn't fall into a coma."  
  
"Yeah, well, I gotta go tell them to call off the search for you. I don't know if you saw the news, but the warehouse is almost completely ablaze. The FBI thinks the shooters are Russian commandos. They managed to capture about a dozen of them, but they're not talking. Crazy, hunh? We still have no idea who or what they were shooting at, but they had some pretty major firepower with them. I'll talk to you tomorrow okay? I'm really glad you're okay, Pez."  
  
"Yeah. Just don't expect me to answer the phone until tomorrow night at the earliest. I'll be dead to the world until then."  
  
"Okay, but I can't promise you that the job won't try to reach you before then to hear your version of events. In fact, you'd better count on it. So far, they've managed to pull about half a dozen bodies out of the warehouse, Pez, and we were afraid one of them was yours. Most of them were burned beyond recognition."  
  
"Well, all's well that ends well, I guess. Except for the crispy guys, that is. Speak to you later, Jake." Sara hung up and then dialed Danny's home number.  
  
"Woo residence," her partner answered.  
  
"Danny, it's me," Sara said.  
  
"Shit, Pez! Are you okay? You really had me worried. I turn on the news and I hear that a female detective is missing at the scene of a firefight between unknown forces. When they said the action was taking place right across the street from where a drug bust had just gone down, I knew they were talking about you. What the hell happened? Are you hurt?"  
  
"I'm fine," she assured him, and proceeded to tell him about Nottingham's battle with the Russians, glossing over her own part in it.  
  
"Wow! Rooskies, hunh? Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
"Yeah. It's Nottingham who's pretty banged up, but he should be fine. Vicky's patching him up as we speak. I told Jake a really tall tale about getting knocked unconscious, waking up dazed and confused, and hopping a cab to Vicky's house, where she diagnosed me with a mild concussion. Much to my surprise, he actually seemed to swallow it," Sara told him.  
  
"Well, it is Jake we're talking about here. But just how are you gonna explain the fact that you fired your service weapon when you came to Nottingham's rescue -- which I know you did, so don't bother denying it, Pez. The coroner is bound to find police-issue bullets in those bodies when they're autopsied."  
  
"I, uh, when I disarmed the sentry, I took his rifle and used it to take out the other soldiers. I never used my gun," she told him.  
  
"Thank God. I'm really glad you're okay, Pez. Are you still planning on staying at your brother's house for the next couple of days?"  
  
"Probably. Nottingham doesn't think it's safe to go to my place. He says Irons probably gave the Russians my address, that asshole."  
  
"What is with that guy? Why would he sic those Russians on his own head of security?"  
  
"You're asking me? Nottingham thinks it was some kind of test. Apparently, Irons likes his employees to prove that they're worthy of service in his employ from time to time."  
  
"Freakin' rich people! If that's what having more money than God does to you, I'm glad I'm working poor. Call me when you decide where you're gonna be staying, partner. And try to stay out of trouble!"  
  
"I'll try. Speak to you tomorrow, Danny."  
  
Next, she called Gabriel. "Talismaniac. Talismans, totems, and neat stuff you can't find anywhere else."  
  
"Hey, Gabriel, it's me."  
  
"Sara! Are you okay? It's all over the news how you're missing and presumed burned to a crisp. Whoa, wait a sec. Now, they're saying you were found alive and safe." There was a pause as he apparently listened to the news bulletin. "Yeah, they're spinning it that you simply got lost in all of the confusion. Care to tell me what really happened?"  
  
Sara told him exactly how events had transpired and about Nottingham being injured. By now, she had reached the vicinity of the heliport, and was driving around looking for a parking spot. Dr. Immo's helicopter was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.  
  
"Poor Nottingham. Do you really think Irons is gonna come through? I can't say I'd trust anything he says at this point," Gabriel astutely observed.  
  
"That's why I'm getting that antidote from this doctor guy by whatever means necessary and bringing it to Nottingham myself. Vicky can administer it."  
  
"Good thinking. Let me know how - Uh-oh!" he interrupted himself, and there was a pause again as he listened to something on the television. "Bad news, Chief. A breaking news report just came on. It seems Irons' estate is under attack. Witnesses report that a helicopter that was either trying to land or take off from there was blown out of the sky. They're saying a missile took it out. I don't think the doc is going anywhere tonight or maybe ever again."  
  
More to come! Thanks to you all for your encouraging feedback. My muse is very pleased, as you can tell. Keep it coming! 


	37. Chapter 38

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm merely appropriating them for a while. It's all in the spirit of good fun, so, please, don't sue me. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 38.  
  
Nearly apoplectic with rage, Kenneth Irons hung up the phone. It started to ring again almost immediately, and without even bothering to glance at the caller ID display, he ripped the cord from the wall, and then threw the entire device across the library. It infuriated him that Sara Pezzini had had the nerve to try to order him around. As he had listened to the green-eyed bitch berate him and then demand that he give Ian Nottingham the antidote, he'd felt his blood pressure begin to rise.  
  
Things were fast spinning out of his control, and Irons found this intolerable. How could he not have foreseen the fact that the Wielder would come to Ian Nottingham's aid? When he had sensed the rise of the bloodlust through his bond with the Witchblade, he'd been pleased, thinking she was fighting the drug lords that had threatened her nephew. Little did he know that she was battling the Russians on Ian's behalf, with no apparent regard for her own safety. There could be only one explanation for this behavior: Sara Pezzini had accepted the assassin as her Protector. This revelation made Kenneth want to shout with anger and frustration. How could this be? How could the socially inept, emotionally retarded younger man have succeeded where he had failed? Somehow, over the past few days, Nottingham had managed to befriend the sharp-tongued harpy of a woman, thereby gaining her trust.  
  
Initially, Irons had blamed his wayward servant's insolence and evasiveness regarding his whereabouts on his high fever, but then Sara had taken the phone from Nottingham, divulging the fact that not only were they together, but that she was aiding him. This had come as quite a shock to Kenneth. Based on what Ian had told him the night before about the Wielder feeling sympathy for him because of his ill health, Irons had suspected that she was slowly warming toward his bodyguard and henchman, but he never would have guessed that she would so readily come to his defense, risking not only her life but her beloved job as a homicide detective in the process. And it had become painfully obvious that Irons had been cast in the role of villain, for not only sickening young Nottingham, but for setting him up to be ambushed by the Russians.  
  
Ian's disloyalty bothered Kenneth more than he cared to admit. He had come to take the former Black Dragon's unswerving obedience and allegiance to him for granted, even when it had become apparent that he was infatuated with the Wielder. Never for one moment had Irons allowed himself to even remotely consider the possibility that Nottingham would abandon him for her. In fact, he still could not fully accept that this was so. He decided that once Dr. Immo administered the antidote and the young man's fever broke, he would come to his senses, and that his lifelong conditioning toward subservience to Kenneth would reassert itself.  
  
He reached for the phone to call Dr. Immo, swearing aloud as he remembered why it was no longer on the small table next to his chair. Stomping from the room, he snatched up the phone in the hallway and called down to the lab.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Irons?" the doctor answered on the first ring.  
  
"Prepare to leave the estate immediately. I have arranged for you to go fetch young Nottingham from the city via helicopter. You are supposed to meet him at the 33rd Street heliport in one hour. Administer the antidote as soon as he boards the aircraft," Irons told him.  
  
"Very well, sir." Immo hung up.  
  
Kenneth dialed another number. "Security. Hopkins speaking," a man's voice answered with pleasing alacrity.  
  
"Mr. Hopkins, I want you to meet me in the communications room right away. I have a task for a small team of your best men. Also, tell the pilot to prepare the helicopter for takeoff at once."  
  
"Yes, sir. I'll be there momentarily."  
  
Irons did not trust Sara Pezzini to simply hand over Nottingham. He now knew that her distrust of him was complete, and that she would in all likelihood attempt to liberate the antidote from the good doctor so that she could administer it to her Protector herself at a place of her choosing. Kenneth decided that he would locate their whereabouts using the tracking device that he'd had installed in all of the estate's vehicles. His plan was to send a task force to capture the injured and ailing assassin and forcibly return him to the estate. If, in the process, the Wielder was killed, so be it. The Witchblade would once again be in his possession, and his beloved Elizabeth Bronte would have some company in her frozen crypt.  
  
Feeling much calmer, he swept into the communications room, noting with approval the way the two technicians whose job it was to monitor the equipment snapped to attention.  
  
"Please bring up the tracking device on the vehicle that Ian Nottingham is driving," he requested, moving to stand in front of the screen that would show the location of his bodyguard's car.  
  
The two young men looked at each other nervously and then stared wide- eyed at him.  
  
"Well?" Irons snapped. "Why aren't you doing as I asked?"  
  
"Uh, M-Mr. Nottingham is driving the n-new X5, sir," one of them finally stammered.  
  
"So? What does that have to do with activating the tracking device?" Kenneth demanded impatiently.  
  
"Um, that SUV was only delivered on Tuesday, sir," the other technician said, as if this explained everything.  
  
With some difficulty, Kenneth resisted the urge to kill them both. "Again, I must ask what does that have to do with activating the device and tracking the vehicle?"  
  
"Well, you see, sir, Mr. Nottingham took the new Beamer, uh, the X5 out before we, um, had a chance to install the, uh, tracking device, sir," the first tech said hesitantly. "He didn't bring it back until after midnight last night, and then he took off with it again early this morning."  
  
Kenneth stared at him, his brain momentarily unable, or unwilling, to process what the younger man had just said. "Do you mean to say there is no way to track Nottingham's movements?" he finally asked, feeling his blood pressure start to escalate once again.  
  
"Not in that car, no. Sorry, sir."  
  
"However, we can get a fix on his position through his cell phone, provided you can keep him talking for at least a minute, preferably two," the other technician said quickly, perhaps recognizing the signs of an impending eruption.  
  
"You had both better hope that you are successful in locating him in this manner," Irons said softly. He snatched up the receiver of a nearby phone and started to dial Nottingham's number, but suddenly the lights flickered and then went out, and the phone line went dead. Moments later, the backup generator kicked in and the lights came back on, but the phone remained inoperative.  
  
"What the hell?" one of the techs muttered uneasily, looking at the security monitors that showed the grounds.  
  
A man came hurrying into the communications room. "Mr. Irons, sir, we have to move you to a secure location immediately. We have reason to believe the estate is about to come under attack."  
  
"No, really? What clued you in to that?" Irons asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hopkins, is it?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Is the perimeter secure?"  
  
"There may be a breach in the northeast quadrant, sir. I have men checking --"  
  
The distant sound of a large explosion interrupted him. To his credit, the man's calm demeanor did not change. "Excuse me for a moment, sir," he said, listening as someone reported to him via the earpiece in his ear.  
  
"It's confirmed, sir: we are under attack by hostile forces," he informed Irons. "A surface-to-air missile was just fired at the helicopter, destroying it as it sat on the landing pad. Apparently, the perimeter has been compromised."  
  
"Casualties?" Kenneth asked, thinking of Dr. Immo and, more importantly, Ian's antidote.  
  
"Still checking, sir. We need to get you to a secure area, Mr. Irons," the man said again.  
  
"Very well. Have someone find Dr. Immo and bring him to me," he told Hopkins as the man escorted him toward the elevator that would take him to a bunker-like structure located in the deepest sublevel of the estate.  
  
And although Kenneth Irons did not betray the slightest hint of fear by deed or word, inwardly he was nervous and upset, and he found himself wishing that Ian Nottingham were by his side instead of a stranger.  
  
****  
  
"So," Vicky Po said, setting her apple juice down on the countertop next to the first-aid kit, "how long have you known Sara, Ian?"  
  
'Our souls have been linked throughout eternity,' Ian thought. But then he noticed that the petite, dark-haired woman was staring at him strangely, and he realized that he had spoken aloud. "At least, that is what it sometimes feels like," he added quickly, face reddening.  
  
"A romantic, eh?" she said. "I didn't think there were any of you left."  
  
"It would appear that we are a dying breed," Ian told her, smiling. 'Some sooner than others,' he thought wryly.  
  
"Don't I know it," Vicky murmured, her heart skipping a beat at that devastating smile. 'There's definitely not enough men who look like him to go around,' she thought enviously. 'He's drop-dead gorgeous, even if he does look a little worse for the wear right now. And, from what I can see, he's built to last, too! Oh, I am soooo jealous, Sara!' "Let's leave the ribs for last, okay?" Vicky said, pulling a wry face. "I'm so used to working on people without a pulse I sometimes forget that stopping blood loss is always the first priority! Now, I know we hardly know each other, but drop your pants, mister!" she ordered him.  
  
"Yes, Ma'am." One-handed, Ian unbuckled his belt and then unbuttoned and unzipped his black wool pants. His right pants leg was soaked with blood and torn where the bullet had ripped through the loose material. Underneath the pants, he wore black thermal long johns, and beneath those, briefs, which were also black.  
  
"That doesn't look too bad," Vicky murmured as he finally bared the shallow, bloody crease that marred his quadriceps muscle about eight inches above his right knee. 'Not bad at all! Nice legs. Not too muscular and not too skinny. And, ah, yes, a nice package, too. Damn you, Sara!'  
  
She angled a gooseneck lamp on the countertop so that she could see the wound better. "It's hardly even bleeding anymore. I'm just going to clean it and then bandage it," she said, straightening and pulling on a pair of latex gloves before taking a bottle of disinfectant and some gauze pads from the first-aid kit.  
  
Vicky soaked the pads with the disinfectant. "This may sting a bit," she warned him before gently beginning to cleanse the wound. "So, how did you and Sara meet?" she asked him as she worked.  
  
"We met at the Midtown Museum. Sara was working on a case and I was working security detail that day," he told her, his voice only slightly roughened by pain.  
  
"Security detail?" Vicky frowned as she spotted a tiny piece of black cloth embedded in the wound. She grabbed a tweezer from the first-aid kit, disinfected it, then carefully used it to remove the bit of material.  
  
"Yes, my employer had several extremely valuable items on display in an exhibit, and I was tasked with guarding them."  
  
"Huh. Every museum I've ever been to has its own guards. Where were they?"  
  
"One item in particular was priceless, and my employer wanted to make certain it was not stolen, so he obtained permission from the museum for me to work security for the exhibit."  
  
"Wait a sec, I think I remember that case. Sara chased an armed suspect into the museum and there was shootout, followed by an explosion. It's a miracle she made it out of there alive. As I recall, all that was left of the gunman were a couple of molars and bone fragments. I'm pretty sure I also read that the exhibit was a complete loss. You were there that day?"  
  
"Yes. Sara and I exchanged no more than a few words, given the circumstances, but I instantly felt drawn to her."  
  
"Okay, the wound is clean," Vicky told him, straightening. "I'm gonna put some antibiotic ointment on it and then bandage it. I noticed that you have Demerol and Tylenol with Codeine in here. I suggest you take a couple of pills now so that they'll kick in shortly after I tape your ribs. Believe me, you're gonna need it."  
  
"No, thank you. I cannot risk taking something that will make me drowsy. I must stay alert until we reach safety," he refused.  
  
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you," Vicky said, shaking her head. 'Men! Why do they always think they have to act brave? If I had dislocated my shoulder and busted a couple of ribs, I'd have popped those pills so fast I'd already be doped up. He must have an incredibly high tolerance for pain. Or maybe he's just a masochist! Ugh, I hope not. That'd really be a shame.'  
  
"You can put your pants back on now," she told him a few minutes later.  
  
Ian took a moment to admire her neat bandage before pulling up his thermal underwear and pants. With considerably more difficulty than it had taken to do the opposite, he zipped up and buttoned his pants and then buckled his belt. But, thankfully, Vicky Po didn't offer to help him with these tasks. Ian had barely worked up the nerve to drop his pants and pull down his thermal underwear so that she could tend his wound. He was grateful that she'd attempted to distract him from the discomfort caused by her ministrations by talking to him because it also had the added effect of making him feel less vulnerable standing there half-dressed in front of a stranger -- and a woman no less.  
  
"Okay. Last chance to pop a couple of pain pills before I tackle those ribs," she said when he finally finished. "No? All right, then let's get you out of this sling first."  
  
Vicky helped Ian remove his overcoat, which came off relatively easily owing to the fact that it opened in the front, then froze, staring at the harnesses that his coat had concealed. But she only hesitated for a moment before starting to unbuckle them. Ian found it odd that, aside from using extreme caution when laying aside the leather harness containing his guns, throwing knives, tear gas canisters, smoke bombs, and grenades, she did not comment on the fact that he'd been carrying enough weapons to supply a small army. However, over the next hour, he came to realize that the 11th Precinct's ME possessed a worldview that was more than slightly off-kilter.  
  
Beneath his coat, Ian wore three more layers -- all pullovers -- which took nearly 15 minutes to remove because even the slightest movement of his left arm caused him agonizing pain. By the time the first two shirts had been taken off, the nerve-endings in his mangled shoulder were screaming, and it was only by sheer force of will that he wasn't, too.  
  
"Oh, no wonder you're hurting so bad! On top of the strained muscles and ligaments from the dislocated shoulder, you've got a broken collarbone," Vicky identified when they finally got down to the final layer, a black cotton tank top. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"  
  
"What difference would it have made if I had? It still would have 'hurt like the dickens' to remove my clothing," Ian said through gritted teeth. "Do not take it personally, Ms. Po. I was taught never to divulge any weakness when in enemy territory. Sara assured me that you could be trusted, but old habits die hard."  
  
"You were in the military?" Vicky asked him as she lifted up the tank top to get a look at his injured ribs. She winced as she saw the extensive bruising that was already visible against his pale skin.  
  
"Yes, Special Forces."  
  
"What was your unit called? The Black Berets, or something? I couldn't help but notice that you have a predilection for the color black." She slowly eased the tank top up over his head and raised right arm and then down around his injured shoulder and left arm, throwing it atop the pile of clothing on the nearby sofa. 'Well, damn!' she thought, trying her best not to stare at what all those layers of clothing had hidden because she clearly sensed how uncomfortable her scrutiny made him.  
  
"Close. We were called the Black Dragons." He flinched, wincing, as she probed his ribs.  
  
"Sorry about that. I'm being as gentle as possible," Vicky said apologetically. "So, that's what the dragon tattoo signifies, hunh?" She nodded toward his right forearm, which was supporting his left arm.  
  
"Yes. All of us had the same tattoo."  
  
"Well, Ian, from what I can tell, you've got three cracked and two fractured ribs, but you really should have an x-ray done just to be sure," she told him a few minutes later.  
  
"I am afraid taping them will have to do for now."  
  
"Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but I just gotta ask: Why the heck did those men, whoever they were, attack you? From what I heard on the news, you're extremely lucky to be alive," she said, taking a scissors, a couple of ace bandages, and a roll of tape from the first-aid kit. Quickly and efficiently, she began binding his injured ribs.  
  
Ian was surprised she had waited as long as she had to ask this question. "Those men were Russians. My employer aroused their ire by essentially selling them damaged goods, and now I am paying the price," he told her.  
  
"So, they're out for revenge and you just happened to be a convenient target?" Vicky surmised.  
  
"Something like that," he murmured, biting back a groan as she taped his chest tightly. He was finding it harder and harder to keep the pain of his injuries at bay. His hellish fever only added to his misery, and he could feel his grip on reality slowly slipping away.  
  
"Almost done," Vicky told him, perhaps sensing his eroding control. "You have an amazing tolerance for pain, Ian. Most people -- and by that I mean grown men who think they're real tough guys -- would have been screaming by now, if they hadn't up and passed out."  
  
'Hmmm. Pass out. Now, there's an idea,' Ian thought longingly. Aloud, he said "While still very young, I began to learn techniques that allow me to control my pain until I can defeat my enemy or reach safety. It took years for me to master them."  
  
"Well, still, I think you should just skip a couple of layers when you put your clothing back on, don't you agree?"  
  
"Most emphatically, yes." 'Or how about I just pass out now and save myself the agony?'  
  
"Okay! All done. How do the ribs feel?" Vicky inquired, admiring her handiwork as well as the sculpted musculature of his shoulders, chest, arms, and abs. Even bruised, battered, and covered with bandages, Ian Nottingham was one fine specimen of a man, she thought, practically salivating over him. 'You are one very lucky woman, Sara Pezzini! If he was mine, I'd tear his clothes off every night, drag him into the bedroom, and --' But she never finished her thought, because suddenly Nottingham's head snapped up, as if he'd heard something outside the apartment. "What's wrong?" she asked him anxiously, wondering if a bunch of angry Russians were about to bust down her door.  
  
"It is Sara. She is very upset," he told her, cocking his dark head slightly as though listening to something only he could hear, eyes becoming unfocused.  
  
"Uh, okay. And you know this how?"  
  
"Through my bond with her. She is distraught and weeping. I must go to her." He grabbed the heavy knit sweater that had been his topmost layer of clothing under his overcoat, and began struggling to put it on.  
  
"Um, you're supposed to wait here for her to get back," Vicky said, eyeing his flushed face, and wondering if he'd begun to hallucinate owing to the dangerously high fever she'd realized that he was suffering from a few minutes after he had walked in her door.  
  
"Help me put this on!" he said urgently, frustrated by his inability to maneuver his useless left arm into the sleeve of the garment.  
  
"All right, all right! Now what?" Vicky asked when he froze.  
  
She saw that he was staring past her at the small television set that sat on her kitchen countertop.  
  
"Could you turn the volume up, please?" he whispered.  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
A blond female reporter was standing on the front lawn of a home that looked like it was located somewhere in the suburbs. Beyond her, in the distance, a fire could be seen burning in the foreground of a large, palatial estate. Vicky raised the volume, catching the reporter in mid- sentence.  
  
" -- about a mile from the site of furious battle between an unidentified, heavily armed attack force and the security team of the man who owns the estate you can see beyond me. We may not know who these attackers are, but we do know that they are armed with what appears to be missile launchers and surface-to-air missiles. Witnesses claim to have seen a missile shoot down a helicopter that had either just taken off from the estate's helipad or was attempting a landing. We believe that the object that you can see burning is that helicopter. At this time, we have no word on who was aboard the aircraft when it was brought down. We do not think the mansion is on fire, but it is difficult to tell from this distance. There's a lot of smoke and flames from the helicopter's fuel tanks, and it is obscuring the building. This is Allison Connors, VCN News, reporting live from Kenneth Irons' Westchester estate, which is currently under attack by an unidentified force of heavily armed men."  
  
"Wow! Kenneth Irons! He's that billionaire who owns Vorschlag Industries as well as half of New York City, isn't he?" Vicky murmured.  
  
"Yes," Ian said. "He is also my employer."  
  
More to come. Thanks for all of your feedback. I am not torturing you people intentionally. Okay, so maybe I am. But please persevere! All will be revealed in due time! And, please, please, please, keep your feedback coming! I love reading it and it truly inspires my muse! 


	38. Chapter 39

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 39.  
  
The traffic light Sara had stopped at turned green, then yellow, then red again, but she was so stunned by what Gabriel had just told her, she failed to notice. Even the loud horns of the irritated drivers behind her barely registered.  
  
"Chief? Are you still there?" Gabriel said.  
  
"Oh my God!" she whispered. "What am I gonna do, Gabriel? Nottingham will die unless he gets that antidote. What am I gonna do?" The light turned green again, and nearly blinded by tears, she pulled around the corner and parked next to a fire hydrant. Sobs began to rack her slender body.  
  
"I'm sure help is on the way to Irons' estate as we speak. Maybe after the Russians are defeated, Irons can rush the antidote to Nottingham. He's gotta have more than one helicopter, right? Or maybe one of his rich buddies can lend him one of theirs. Don't worry, Chief, Nottingham is gonna be fine," her friend tried his best to reassure her.  
  
"No, he's not, Gabriel!" Sara wailed. "His fever is going through the roof. It could be hours before it's safe to fly a helicopter into or out of that place. Nottingham doesn't have much time. If you saw him, you'd realize it, too. What the hell am I gonna do?"  
  
"Just be there for him, I guess. Don't let him die alone, even though he'll probably insist that you leave in order to spare you the pain of watching him suffer," Gabriel said quietly.  
  
"Uh, not exactly the advice I was looking for there, guy!" Sara hiccupped, regaining her equilibrium with an effort. "There has to be something I can do. Like maybe use the Witchblade to heal him. The other night, you said you had come across some history that suggested past Wielders had used the Witchblade to heal their Protectors, right?" she recalled, a seed of hope taking root in her heart.  
  
"Yeah, but I also told you it indicated that the bond between the Wielder and her Protector had to be very, very strong in order for it to work. Much as I hate to say this, Chief, I don't know if your bond with Nottingham is strong enough for that to work."  
  
"I gotta try it, Gabriel. Nottingham doesn't have any other options. I can't lose him now. Not after I just discovered who he is. I need him if I'm gonna survive long enough to really learn how to use this thing," she said, glancing at the bracelet's quiescent stone. "Maybe that will be incentive enough for the Witchblade to heal him. It can't want me to go around Protector-less, can It?"  
  
"Go for it, then," Gabriel told her. "Have you figured out someplace safe to take him?"  
  
"Yeah, I think so, but I'm gonna play it by ear. I'll call you and let you know how everything works out, okay? Right now, I've gotta get back to Vicky's place."  
  
"Okay, Chief. I'll keep monitoring the situation at Irons' estate. If I hear that the siege has ended, I'll give you a call. If need be, I'll borrow my neighbor Henry's car and drive out to Westchester to get the antidote and bring it to wherever you and Ian are."  
  
"He's grown on you, hasn't he?" Sara asked the young businessman.  
  
"Yeah, I guess so," he said. "I know I'd like the opportunity to get to know him better. Plus, he's really knowledgeable about my line of work. I was totally serious about consulting him on some of my finds."  
  
"Well, hopefully, you'll get the chance to do that. Speak to you later, Gabriel. Wish me luck!"  
  
"Goodbye, Chief, and good luck!"  
  
Exhausted by her crying jag, Sara pulled away from the fire hydrant and suddenly found herself fighting the urge to burst into tears again. She sincerely hoped that Nottingham had been too busy having his injuries tended by Vicky to notice the breaking news story about his employer being attacked. Not that it mattered; he was sure to figure out something had gone wrong as soon as she returned without the antidote. If by some miracle he hadn't seen the news story, Sara dreaded having to tell him why Dr. Immo hadn't shown up. She was also afraid that, despite being injured and weakened by blood loss, he would attempt to mount a rescue of Kenneth Irons. If Nottingham decided he wanted to do something foolish like that, Sara highly doubted she could stop him. The man he called his master had some kind of psychological hold over the assassin that she didn't fully understand. Add to that his fever-induced irrationality, and it could spell disaster. She decided to call Vicky to see how things were going.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Vicky, it's me."  
  
"Sara! Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine," she murmured, wondering why her friend sounded so relieved. "How is Nottingham?"  
  
"I bandaged his thigh and taped his ribs. Although the bullet wound wasn't serious, he did suffer some blood loss and I'm pretty sure he's got at least three cracked and two fractured ribs. However, he's got a much bigger problem than that, Sara. As I'm sure you're aware, he's running a scarily high fever," Vicky told her and then dramatically lowered her voice, "and I think he's starting to hallucinate."  
  
Sara's heart sank. "Why do you say that?"  
  
"Well, about ten minutes ago, he became agitated, saying that you were upset and crying, and that he had to go to you. He seems to think he has some sort of psychic connection to you."  
  
"What is he doing now?"  
  
"Well, he calmed down after a couple of minutes, and now he's just sort of standing there, staring into space and rocking. It's really weirding me out, Sara. When will you be back?"  
  
"I should be there in less than ten minutes, Vic. Um, by any chance did he happen to see a breaking news story on the TV around the same time that he became agitated?"  
  
"Yeah. How did you know that? By the way, he claims that billionaire Kenneth Irons -- coincidentally, the same guy whose estate is under attack, according to the news -- is his boss. Is that true or just another hallucination?"  
  
"No, it's true. What did Nottingham say when he saw the report?"  
  
"Not much, aside from the fact that Mr. Moneybags is his employer. What's going on, Sara? I get the feeling that there's much more here than meets the eye."  
  
"It's kind of a long story, Vic. I promise I'll explain everything when I have more time. I'm gonna come up and get Nottingham, and then we're heading someplace safe where he can recuperate."  
  
"Okay. I'll see you in a little bit. Bye."  
  
"Bye." Sara hung up and took off the headset, sighing. So, Nottingham knew that Irons' estate was under siege, but hadn't rushed off to his employer's rescue. This meant he also knew that Sara hadn't gotten the antidote. Apparently, her highly emotional reaction to the news that Dr. Immo wasn't coming had alerted him to the fact that something had gone wrong, and she realized that he must have sensed how upset she was through his bond with her. Ordinarily, this would have freaked her out in a big way, but now it gave her added hope that maybe she could heal him using the Witchblade. She tried not to think about the fact that the bond was not mutual, nor could it be, according to Gabriel and Witchblade lore, unless she and Nottingham became much more than just friends. However, there was nothing she could do to change that now: She highly doubted he was in any shape to do the horizontal tango. But in the future -- if Nottingham had a future -- Sara decided that she would consider the possibility of them exploring a relationship.  
  
"Just consider, mind you," she said aloud to the bracelet on her right wrist, which chose that moment to flare to life, almost as if it were pleased by her decision. "So, don't get your hopes up! None of this changes the fact that he's an assassin and I'm a cop, or that he works for a seriously twisted and evil man. Only please, please, please help me heal him, Witchy! I don't want my Protector to die!"  
  
****  
  
Vicky Po hung up her phone and regarded the tall, black-clad man standing in the middle of her living room.  
  
"I suppose you 'sense' that Sara is on her way back here," she murmured, not expecting a response.  
  
"Yes," Nottingham said, surprising her. "She is not far."  
  
With her help, he had put his thick, black, cable-knit sweater back on. He also had on the sling, having decided to wear it under his overcoat rather than outside like before, meaning there would be one less layer to painfully remove later.  
  
After watching the news report, Nottingham had become withdrawn and restless, pacing to and fro in front of the door to the apartment. When Vicky had quietly reminded him that physical activity would only drive his fever higher faster, he had moved to the spot where he now stood. Taking her digital thermometer from her medicine cabinet, Vicky had approached him and requested that he let her take his temperature, but the look he'd given her from beneath his dark brows had instantly made her back away. She'd kept her distance since then.  
  
"I am in love with Sara, but she does not love me," he announced.  
  
"You mean she's just using your hot bod to satisfy her base desires?" Vicky blurted out. "That selfish bitch!"  
  
For the first time in nearly 20 minutes, Nottingham focused on his hostess.  
  
"I do not like it when anyone insults my Lady," he said softly, febrile hazel eyes meeting hers. "But in answer to your question, no, our relationship is platonic."  
  
"What is she, nuts?" Vicky exclaimed. "Oops, sorry. That was insulting again, wasn't it? Oh, what the hell -- sue me. She's obviously stupid or blind, or both."  
  
Ian frowned in confusion. "Why do you say that?"  
  
Vicky stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. "Have you ever looked in a mirror?"  
  
He shrugged, then winced, his right hand going to his injured shoulder. "Of course. Whenever I perform personal grooming."  
  
Vicky laughed. "Seriously, Ian, you do realize you're gorgeous, don't you?"  
  
He shrugged his good shoulder. "I have never given it much thought," he said truthfully. "Perhaps my appearance is simply not pleasing to my Lady."  
  
"Then she must be either a lesbian or paralyzed below the waist," Vicky opined, shaking her head. "I'd do you in a New York minute!" She watched, fascinated, as a blush reddened his already flushed face. "However, you do hide your, ahem, light under a bushel."  
  
He raised an eyebrow at her. "'Light' is a euphemism for my 'hot bod,' correct?"  
  
"Yes! What I'm trying to say, Ian, is that you tend to hide your considerable assets beneath all those layers of black clothing. Try showing Sara a little skin from time to time!" she suggested.  
  
Ian frowned, lowering his eyes. "As you are no doubt aware, I am highly uncomfortable showing skin, as you put it. Besides, the opportunities to do so are few and far between."  
  
Just then, Vicky's doorbell rang. "Oh, somebody must have let Sara in," she said, heading for the door.  
  
"That is not Sara, Ms. Po," Ian murmured.  
  
She threw him a disbelieving look over her shoulder. "How do you know that?"  
  
"Through my bond with her."  
  
"Oh, yeah. Right." Humoring him, Vicky peered through the door's peephole and then gasped. "Jake! What the heck are you doing here?" she exclaimed.  
  
"Uh, I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by," Jake McCartey's voice said through the door. "Can I come in?"  
  
"Oh, uh, yeah, sure. Just let me straighten up a bit," Vicky said, glancing rather wildly around at all of the evidence of her unexpected and injured guest that was in plain sight, not the least of which was the man himself.  
  
"Hey, mess is not a problem, Vicky girl!" Jake called. "Let me in!"  
  
"Um, yes, it is! I'll just be a minute. Quick," she whispered to Nottingham, "hide in my bedroom!"  
  
"Why?" Ian asked, frowning.  
  
"Because Jake doesn't know about you and I think Sara would like to keep it that way, that's why!" she hissed. "Come on!" She grabbed his discarded clothing and overcoat, the first-aid kit, the harness that had once held his katana and the one containing all of his numerous weapons, and started to head for her bedroom.  
  
"How will you explain Sara's arrival to Detective McCartey, Ms. Po? She is parking the car as we speak, and will be here momentarily," Ian said, still not moving.  
  
"I'll call her on her cell phone and tell her to stay downstairs until I can get rid of him! Now, move it, Nottingham!" she whispered exasperatedly.  
  
"Very well." He preceded her into her bedroom.  
  
Vicky tossed the first-aid kit and his clothing onto the bed, carefully placing the weapons on top of them, then snatched up the phone on the nightstand.  
  
"Pezzini, go."  
  
"Um, Sara, we've got a problem: Jake is at my front door," she told her friend.  
  
"I do not like Detective McCartey," Ian commented, reaching down to finger one of his Glocks. "He is not what he seems."  
  
"Oh shit! What are you gonna do about Nottingham?" Sara asked Vicky, dismayed.  
  
"I've hidden him in my bedroom, where he's currently fondling one of about a gazillion weapons and talking about how he doesn't like Jake."  
  
"Must be the fever," Sara murmured, unconcerned.  
  
"Uh, yeah. Please put that very big gun away, Ian, there's a good boy," Sara heard her say cajolingly to Nottingham.  
  
"Okay, listen Vicky, here's what you do: Earlier today, on the way to the drug bust, Jake mentioned that he had rented several movies and stocked up on all kinds of munchies. He also told me that he was thinking of inviting you over to his place to ride out the blizzard with him. If he invites you over, go with him. After you guys leave, I'll come up, get Nottingham, and we'll be on our way," Sara told her.  
  
"Did he really say he was thinking of inviting me over?" Vicky asked, grinning happily.  
  
"I do not believe Detective McCartey is as naïve as he pretends to be either," Ian opined, admiring the way the light shone on the razor-sharp blade of one of his throwing knives.  
  
"Focus, Vicky," Sara said. "Put Nottingham on the phone, and then go and let Jake in. Turn the volume on the TV up loud so he doesn't hear us talking."  
  
"Okay. Ian, sweetie, put your toys away now, Sara wants to talk to you," Sara heard her say to the assassin. "And try to keep your voice down, okay?"  
  
"Sara, why were you crying?" Nottingham asked as soon as he came on the line.  
  
"Um, PMS," she mumbled. "I get really emotional during this time of the month and often start blubbering for no reason at all."  
  
"Forgive me for saying so, but I think you are lying, my Lady. I think you were weeping because you found out that Dr. Immo may have been killed and therefore will not be able to bring me the antidote," he told her. "I think you are sad that I am going to die."  
  
"You're not going to die, Nottingham, so stop saying that!" Sara shouted at him, horrified to feel tears fill her eyes again.  
  
"'No longer mourn for me when I am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled from this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it; for I love you so, that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, if thinking on me then should make you woe,'" Ian whispered. "There. I said it. I love you, Sara. I love you."  
  
"Nottingham, you're not in your right mind," Sara said, trying and failing to keep from sobbing. 'Oh God,' she thought desperately, 'we're running out of time! Please hurry up, Vicky!'  
  
"On the contrary, I have never been more lucid," he told her. "I do not know why I waited so long to tell you how I feel about you. I know you do not love me, but -- Oh, Ms. Po is back and wants to speak to you, my love."  
  
"You were right, Sara. Jake invited me over to his place. I'm just gonna throw a few things into an overnight bag and then we'll be off," Vicky said, eyeing Nottingham, who was staring dreamily into space.  
  
"I confessed my love to Sara," Ian told her, smiling. But then he frowned. "But I also made her cry again. It hurts me when she weeps. Here," he placed his right hand on his heart.  
  
"Not a moment too soon, Vic," Sara sniffled. "As you can probably tell, Nottingham's pretty far gone. I've got to get him someplace safe before he really loses it." She paused, wiping the tears from her face. "Oh, by the way, I told Jake some story about coming to your place after leaving the burning warehouse. He thinks you treated me for a concussion and that you're gonna call me every half an hour at home to make sure I haven't slipped into a coma."  
  
"Oh, so that's what he was babbling about! I got you covered, girlfriend. I'll just talk to your answering machine. Listen, Sara, now that I've treated his bullet wound, you might want to think about taking Ian to a hospital. I think he's seriously ill. However, if you don't want to take that risk, your first priority should be bringing that fever down. I'll call you on your cell tomorrow to find out how he's feeling, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Tell him I'll be up to get him after you guys leave."  
  
"You know, since I won't be around for the next couple of days, you're both welcome to stay here, Sara."  
  
"Thanks for the offer, but something tells me that Nottingham is gonna be out of action for more than a couple of days. I have a better place in mind for him to hole up in. Somewhere the neighbors won't hear him if he starts raving deliriously. Thanks again for everything, Vic. Have fun at Jake's."  
  
"I intend to! No, Ian, you can't have the phone back. Sara told me to tell you that she'll be up to get you in a few minutes," Sara heard her friend tell the feverish assassin. "Bye, Sara. I'll call you tomorrow."  
  
"Bye, Vicky."  
  
From where she sat in the SUV across the street, Sara saw Jake and Vicky leave the building arm in arm five minutes later. Jake was carrying the petite ME's overnight bag. They looked for all the world like a couple of excited kids who were looking forward to a snow day, she thought, smiling. She was glad that her friends were growing closer. Vicky's battle with alcoholism had been rough on her, especially at first, and Sara knew that she hadn't dated anyone since becoming sober. The program she had arranged for her friend to attend discouraged starting a relationship until the recovering alcoholic had been sober for at least six months, but Sara knew Vicky was lonely and figured that a little appreciative male companionship would do wonders for her attitude.  
  
Getting out of the car, she crossed the street and pressed the intercom button belonging to Vicky's apartment. The buzzer sounded a moment later.  
  
Nottingham opened the door before she could knock, and smiled shyly at her. "Sara."  
  
"Yeah, how are you feeling, Nottingham? Vicky fixed you up good, hunh?"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Po is a very competent doctor. However, she has extremely poor taste in men. She left with Detective Jacob McCartey, whom I do not care for at all."  
  
"And why is that?" Sara asked, walking into the bedroom. She found a shopping bag in Vicky's closet and started to gather up various items of discarded black clothing.  
  
"Then again, Ms. Po did say she would do me 'in a New York minute,' so perhaps her dalliance with Mr. McCartey is an aberration," Ian said thoughtfully.  
  
Sara stopped what she was doing and stared at him. "Let's just see how high your fever is, Nottingham,' she murmured, taking the digital thermometer out of her pocket.  
  
"Oh, I think it is very, very high. However, I am not feeling as hot as before because Ms. Po suggested that I just put my sweater back on and I concurred. She also encouraged me to show more skin from time to time."  
  
"Okay, now you're starting to scare me, Nottingham," Sara said. "Open up." She stuck the device in his mouth, but less than a minute later, he removed it.  
  
"I think it is broken, Sara," he confided, handing it to her.  
  
"No, you didn't leave it in long enough. Let's try again." She reset the thermometer and slid it beneath his tongue. He started to take it out again after a minute but she prevented him from doing so by the simple expedient of placing a finger on his lips. At her touch, he shuddered, a fractured groan escaping him, and his glazed eyes darkened with what was unmistakably desire. Sara closed her eyes as an answering twinge of need flooded her loins. Fast double beeps sounded 30 seconds later.  
  
"Oh God," she whispered. The tiny readout said 105.2.  
  
"I guess it was not broken after all," Ian said huskily, not bothering to look at the reading. "Had my lips become chapped again, Sara?"  
  
She blushed self-consciously. "Come on, Nottingham. We've got to get going," she said, surreptitiously brushing tears from her pale cheeks as she turned to pick up his overcoat from the bed. She helped him into it, and then put his shirts, the empty katana sheath, and the weapon-laden harness into the shopping bag. Picking up the first-aid kit, she started for the door.  
  
"Excuse me a moment, my Lady," Nottingham said, reaching into his coat pocket and taking out his cell phone, adroitly using his chin to open it. "Ian Nottingham. Oh, good evening, Mr. Brown."  
  
"Shit! I forgot all about Alonzo," Sara muttered. "Give me the phone, Nottingham."  
  
"The Wielder wishes to speak to you, Mr. Brown. Goodbye." He handed her the phone, smiling. "See? I even remembered to say goodbye."  
  
"Um, yeah. Hi, Alonzo, this is Detective Pezzini."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Yeah, I just need to make a phone call and someone will bail you out."  
  
Pause.  
  
"What? Oh, Nottingham is a little under the weather, that's all."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Yeah. Thanks for coming through tonight. I'll see to it that you get compensated for your trouble."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Okay, then."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Yeah, I'll tell him. Bye." She hung up and then immediately dialed the narcotics squad at the 11th Precinct, swiftly arranging for someone to bail Alonzo Brown out. But then the person she was speaking to said "Hold on a moment, Detective Pezzini. Captain Phillips would like to speak to you."  
  
'Oh, crap!' Sara groaned mentally.  
  
"Detective Pezzini?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"What the hell happened back at that warehouse? I was gonna put in a commendation for you owing to your invaluable help in bringing down Angel and Joaquin Medina, but after that stunt you pulled, I'm having second thoughts!" he tore into her.  
  
"I apologize for causing you and the others concern, Captain. I know it doesn't excuse my reckless behavior, but after the bust went down with a whimper instead of the bang I was expecting, I was kinda spoiling for a fight. It was stupid of me not to wait for backup, I know that now. Again, I'm really sorry."  
  
"Are you all right?" his voice gentled, perhaps because he could hear how exhausted she was. "Detective McCartey said you suffered a mild concussion."  
  
"Yeah, but aside from a slight headache, I'm fine. I could really use some rest, though. It's been a stress-filled week."  
  
"Well, I just wanted to hear for myself that you're okay. Your informant is already in the process of being sprung. Get some rest, Detective," the narcotics squad's CO told her.  
  
"I will. And if we ever have the pleasure of working together again, I promise I won't go off half-cocked like that again. According to Captain Dante, it's gonna be the end of me one of these days," she told him.  
  
"That would really be a shame. You're a truly gifted detective, Pez. Should you ever decide you want to transfer to narcotics, I'd be damned glad to have you. Good night."  
  
"Good night, Captain Phillips." Sara hung up, and looked at Nottingham, who was standing near her, staring into space and rocking. Her eyes widened as she saw that his sweater had ridden up to expose a killer set of abs as he absently rubbed his battered, tightly taped ribcage. Beneath the bandages, a light furring of dark chest hair was just visible, a narrow line of which arrowed downward to disappear beneath the waistband of his black wool trousers. She shook her head. 'Focus, Pezzini! You've got to get him someplace safe and heal him with the Witchblade. Now is definitely not the time for lustful thoughts. He's a very sick man, for crying out loud!' she reprimanded herself.  
  
"Come on, Nottingham. Let's get out of here," she said, handing him back his cell phone.  
  
"Yes, my love," he said, smiling at her. "Whither thou goest."  
  
More to come. Thanks for the feedback. Your torture is almost at an end. I promise! 


	39. Chapter 40

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just having a blast with them. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: Warning: the angst quotient is extremely high in this chapter. Why, you might ask, is dragongrrl bothering to warn us now? Well, I just thought I'd let you prepare yourselves and have a box of Kleenex at the ready!  
Chapter 40.  
"Come," Kenneth Irons called in response to the soft knock at the door to the high-security safe-room. With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the wall-mounted plasma television screen he'd been watching as his acting head of security, former Navy Seal, Lieutenant First Class Graham Hopkins, entered the room.  
  
"Any change in the good doctor's condition, Lieutenant?" he demanded before the other man could speak.  
  
"No, sir. He's still unconscious. The surgeon says it's a miracle the man is alive at all. If he'd been just a few feet closer to the helicopter when it exploded, he would have been killed instantly. They were able to remove all of the shrapnel and the internal bleeding has stopped, so he has a chance. The pilot was lucky as well. He's got some third-degree burns and may lose the sight in one eye, but he'll survive. I came to report that the enemy has been driven back. They've suffered heavy losses, but may be regrouping for one last assault. Local law enforcement officials have cut off all escape routes, so their backs are against the wall."  
  
"As I'm sure you well know, Lieutenant, a wounded beast is at its most dangerous when cornered. However, it sounds as if it is only a matter of time before the Russians are defeated," he told the younger man. 'But time is something Ian is fast running out of,' he mused, feeling an unwelcome stab of something distressingly like guilt at the thought.  
  
"Also, the communications technicians wanted to let you know that they were able to get a fix on Mr. Nottingham's location," Hopkins said.  
  
"Why didn't you inform me of this immediately?" Irons snapped, frowning.  
  
"Well, when you asked after the doctor -- "  
  
"Get out!" Kenneth growled, snatching up the phone and calling upstairs to the communications room. Internal phone service had been restored, but incoming and outgoing calls were still impossible, and would be until the utility company could replace the equipment that the Russians had destroyed. Infuriatingly, cell phones were useless in the heavily shielded bunker. The room was luxuriously furnished and very comfortable, but inconvenient in the extreme in that one very important regard.  
  
Disgusted by their failure to equip Nottingham's vehicle with the tracking device, Kenneth had ordered the two dimwitted communications technicians to stay at their posts despite the battle raging practically right outside their door. Apparently, they had known better than to disobey him.  
  
"Yes, sir?" one of them answered on the first ring. Sporadic gunfire could be heard in the background.  
  
"Where is Nottingham?" Kenneth asked without preamble.  
  
"Well, using one of Vorschlag's GPS birds, we were able to lock onto Mr. Nottingham's cell phone signal, Mr. Irons. We successfully triangulated the signal to establish his location. Approximately ten minutes ago, he received a two-minute call at 151 East 68th Street, the Standish Arms apartment building," the first tech said. "He then made a call to the 11th Precinct, which lasted just over two minutes. No calls have been made or received since then."  
  
"We did some checking, sir, and it turns out that a Dr. Vicky Po lives in the Standish Arms in apartment 11F," the second technician told him. "Her name is flagged in the database as being connected with Detective Sara Pezzini."  
  
"Good work, gentlemen," Kenneth told them, pleased by this information. "I've been informed that the estate will be secure shortly. As soon as it is, I want to place a call to Nottingham in order to verify his position. In the meantime, keep monitoring his cell phone activity, and inform me immediately if he changes location." He hung up. 'So, Ian is holed up at the home of the 11th Precinct's Medical Examiner,' he thought. 'That makes sense, since Ms. Po is a medical doctor and young Nottingham mentioned that he was injured during his battle with the Russians. Perhaps there is still time to get him the antidote after all." He frowned at the distinct feeling of relief this last thought gave him.  
  
Fortunately, Dr. Immo had kept detailed notes about the toxin and the antidote on his computer. One of his associates had been instructed to prepare another dose of the latter, seeing as the first one had been destroyed along with the helicopter. Kenneth decided to have Hopkins send out that team of men to retrieve Nottingham after all. If the assassin was still alive when they found him, one of them could administer the antidote before bringing him back to the estate. However, if Ian was already dead, they would be ordered to return with his body anyway, thereby avoiding the questions that an autopsy by the authorities would undoubtedly raise. The corpse would be kept on ice, and once Dr. Immo regained consciousness, he or one of his assistants could activate one of Nottingham's "brothers."  
  
'This situation is not a total disaster,' Irons realized with satisfaction. He picked up the phone again and called Hopkins. When the man reappeared moments later, Kenneth told him to assemble the retrieval team.  
  
"Send the men out via the escape tunnel that leads to the basement of a house approximately two miles from here. There's a fully equipped transport vehicle in the garage of the house, and with their military credentials they should be waved through any checkpoints the local authorities might have set up. Send them to Nottingham's last known location, 151 East 68th Street, Apartment 11F, and have them verify whether or not he is still there. If he is gone, have them stand by until they receive new coordinates. Once they have them, they are to retrieve Nottingham, dead or alive. If he's still alive when they find him, one of them is to immediately administer the contents of a syringe that you will supply them with. Obtain this syringe from Dr. Immo's lab as soon as you leave here," Irons said. "Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Might I ask why you chose not to avail yourself of this escape tunnel, sir?" Hopkins inquired curiously before leaving to carry out his orders.  
  
"Because a few angry Russians aren't going to force me to flee my own home, that's why," Kenneth sniffed. "Now go assemble that team, Mr. Hopkins. And I want frequent progress reports. Dismissed."  
  
Kenneth's gaze returned to the TV screen, where Allison Connors, the roving reporter for Vorschlag Cable Network, was reporting live on the ongoing battle. Ms. Connors was an attractive young woman, he thought idly, if not exactly a beauty. She was, however, an excellent reporter. Irons insisted on the best. After the media frenzy surrounding these lamentable events had died down and the inevitable scrutiny of his past and present business dealings with the Russians had failed to turn up anything illegal on his part, he decided that he would invite Ms. Connors over to the estate for dinner to thank her in person for her superb work covering the story. Everything would eventually return to normal. Ian Nottingham, in some form or the other, would be back at his side where he belonged, and, if Kenneth were incredibly lucky, the Witchblade would also be back in his possession.  
  
****  
  
For perhaps the hundredth time since they'd left Vicky Po's apartment nearly 45 minutes ago, Sara Pezzini anxiously glanced over at Ian Nottingham.  
  
"We're almost there, Nottingham," she said, noticing that he was shivering.  
  
"Where is 'there,' Sara?" he asked without opening his eyes. This was the first time he'd spoken in almost half an hour, having withdrawn into himself shortly after painfully climbing into the SUV.  
  
"Well, last night during dinner, Paula mentioned that the apartment over their garage is empty because the grad student who was renting it came down with a severe case of mono and was forced to withdraw from his classes for this semester. I thought it would be the perfect place to take you," Sara told him.  
  
"I d-do not agree. What if we have been f-followed? Your brother's f-family could be in d-danger, my Lady," he said through chattering teeth, opening glazed, bloodshot eyes.  
  
'He's got the chills,' Sara thought worriedly. "I've been checking, and so far I haven't spotted a tail," she told him truthfully. "The only person who knows where we'll be is Danny, and he won't tell anybody. Jake thinks I'm at my place, and so does the job. You'll be safe there, Nottingham. Besides, the storm is about to make it nearly impossible for anybody to travel anywhere within the tri-state area for the next few days. Plus, it's a two-car garage, which means the SUV will be hidden from sight."  
  
"I still d-do not like it. M-Mr. Irons will eventually f-figure out where I am, and I have no d-doubt he will send a retrieval t-team to get my b-body, I mean, m-me," he added swiftly as Sara frowned.  
  
"Yeah, well, we don't have much choice at this point. I'll keep a close eye on the Witchblade. If it signals impending danger, we'll make a run for it. Robbie, Paula, and the kids can go stay at Joe and Marie's house if need be for a couple of days."  
  
Ian sighed. "V-very well, my Lady." He pulled his overcoat closer around his aching body in a futile effort to ward off the chills gripping him. The nearly convulsive shivers were wreaking havoc with his injured shoulder and ribs, and it was only with a great degree of difficulty that he was able to maintain the pain block. However, he knew he could not do so for much longer. Between now and when he finally lost it, he had to figure out a way to send Sara away so that she would not have to witness his agonizing death throes.  
  
"So, you don't think Irons was killed by the Russians?" Sara asked him.  
  
"No. I would have sensed it if he had been. However, I am not so sure about poor, misguided Dr. Immo," he told her. "I have no doubt he instantly obeyed when ordered to board that helicopter."  
  
"Wait a sec, isn't this the same guy who injected you with the toxin?" she frowned. "You should be glad that he got what he deserved rather than feeling sorry for him."  
  
"He was only following orders. I am not the only one who finds it nearly impossible to disobey my master. Dr. Immo is not an evil man, just a weak one. He was always kind to me when I was a child, although I could never quite bring myself to like him because of the hell he put me through at my master's behest. Still, he was one of the few people who I sensed genuinely liked me when I was growing up."  
  
"Here we are," Sara said, pulling into the driveway of Robert and Paula Siri's house in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. With every story the assassin shared about his nightmarish upbringing, her hatred of Kenneth Irons deepened. That Nottingham had suffered abuse -- psychological and, she was beginning to suspect, physical -- at the hands of his monstrous employer was abundantly clear. She wondered how, after everything he'd been put through, he could still be so forgiving toward people like Dr. Immo.  
  
"Wait here for a few minutes while I go speak to them. I'm gonna tell them that your flu worsened, and that I didn't feel right leaving you on your own during the blizzard," she told Nottingham.  
  
"They will undoubtedly have heard about the attack on both the warehouse and my employer's estate, Sara. How will you explain my injuries to them?" he inquired.  
  
"Shit. You're right." She thought about this quandary for a few moments. "I'll just say you suffered a bad fall, and leave it at that. It's not far from the truth, right? Just hang tight. I'll be right back." Opening the car door, she hopped out.  
  
The side entrance to the house opened before Sara could reach it, and Joey Siri, Jr. came hurrying out.  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara! I came to grab your bag for you," he said, peering beyond her at the silver BMW SUV.  
  
"Come here, kid," Sara said, grabbing her nephew and giving him a quick hug. "Leave my bag for now, Joey, and come inside. I need to speak to your parents," she told him, hooking her arm through his.  
  
"I know it's late, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if Ian visited for a while," the boy said, waving at Ian, who lifted a gloved hand in response.  
  
"That's kind of what I want to talk to your parents about, kiddo. Come on, I promise I'll explain everything," Sara told him, pulling him toward the house.  
  
"Hey, Sara," Paula Siri said as Sara and her son entered the coatroom off the kitchen. "We were beginning to wonder whether you'd changed your mind about coming. Has it started snowing yet?"  
  
"No, not yet. I need to talk to you and Robbie, Paula," she said to her sister-in-law, following her nephew into the warm, inviting kitchen.  
  
Just then, Sara's surrogate older brother walked into the room. "There you are, Sara! What took you so long?" he greeted her, giving her a big hug. "Gina Marie tried to wait up for you, but she conked out about 20 minutes ago. I just finished tucking her in. Between us, me and my parents must have left a dozen messages on your answering machine at home. We were really worried when we saw on the news that a female detective was missing at the scene of a gun battle right across the street from where a major drug bust had just gone down. We thought it might have been you. But then they said the detective was found safe and sound."  
  
"It was me," Sara admitted. "Long story. Right now, I have more pressing problems. Nottingham is outside in the car. His flu has gotten worse and on top of that, he suffered a dislocated shoulder and a couple of busted ribs in a nasty fall. The doctor who patched him up said he really shouldn't be left alone, so I volunteered to look after him. All he really needs is some R&R in a nice, quiet place. I remembered what Paula told me about your grad student moving back home, and I thought it might be okay if me and Nottingham stayed in the apartment above the garage for the next few days."  
  
"Sure, that would be fine," Robbie and Paula said almost in unison.  
  
"Poor guy," Paula murmured. "I recently gave the place a thorough cleaning. All you need to do is put sheets and blankets on the bed, uh, beds. There's also a futon in the living room."  
  
"I'll go turn on the heat," Robbie said into the awkward silence that followed. He went into the coatroom and grabbed his coat off a hook. "It'll take about half an hour or so for the place to warm up. Maybe Ian could rest in the guest room until then?" he suggested.  
  
"Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll go get him. And thanks, you guys. You're lifesavers," Sara told them. 'Let's just hope you are, too!' she thought at the Witchblade.  
  
She was glad to see that Nottingham had stopped shivering when she got back into the SUV, but he still looked truly miserable. "It's all arranged. Robbie's turning on the heat in the apartment. Do you want to come inside the house and lay down in the guest room until the place warms up?" she asked him.  
  
Ian shook his head. "No. If I lie down anywhere, I seriously doubt I would be able to get up again. I will just sit here and try to stay as still as possible. My shoulder and ribs do not hurt as badly when I remain motionless," he said. Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket. Taking it out, he glanced at the display, and Sara saw the color drain from his face.  
  
"Yes, father," he answered it.  
  
'Father!?!' Sara thought, stunned. 'Kenneth Irons is his father!?!'  
  
"Ian, where are you?" Kenneth immediately asked him.  
  
"I am dying, father," Ian told him, ignoring his question. "However, I am not at all surprised that you managed to survive the Russians' attack."  
  
"Ian, if you tell me where you are, I can have the antidote brought to you within the hour," Irons told him.  
  
"Did you ever love me, father?" Ian asked him wistfully.  
  
"Tell me where you are, Ian. Now!" Irons demanded impatiently.  
  
"On the knife's edge between life and death," Nottingham murmured, and then heaved a weary sigh. "I cannot serve two masters, father. I thought I could, but I have come to the realization that I cannot. The Wielder needs my protection in order to increase her odds of survival, but so long as you hold dominion over me, I cannot be the kind of Protector that she needs and deserves."  
  
Abruptly, the fiery glow of the Witchblade's blood-red stone lit up the interior of the car in clear warning. "He's trying to trace our location through your cell phone, Nottingham!" Sara realized. "Hang up! Now!"  
  
"You could have bound me to you forever if you had simply shown me a father's love, or even kindness from time to time," Ian told Kenneth Irons. "Goodbye, father." He ended the call, tears streaming down his haggard face.  
  
The bracelet's stone went dark, and Sara heaved a sigh of relief. "I don't think he was successful, that scheming, manipulative bastard," she said, then winced. "I'm sorry, Nottingham. I didn't realize that he was your father."  
  
"Whether or not he actually is my biological father is unclear. But he is the only parent I have ever known," Ian said sadly. "He never allowed himself to show me affection, except on rare occasions, when I did something that especially pleased him. His lust for power corrupted him, rendering him incapable of genuine emotion. However, I was so desperate for his approval, which I came to equate with a father's love, that I never stopped trying to please him. I can hardly believe that I will soon be free of him."  
  
"Stop talking like that, Nottingham!" Sara shouted, pounding the steering wheel in frustration. "I'm gonna heal you with the Witchblade. Gabriel told me he found evidence that suggested past Wielders could use it to heal their Protectors."  
  
He looked at her, eyes dark with sorrow and soul-deep weariness. "Even if by some miracle that works, I would still be under Kenneth Irons' thrall. He ruined me for you, Sara. I was born to protect the Bladewielder, but he took me and twisted me to his will. As long as he is alive, I can never be truly free of his grasp. Please, do not cry, my love," he begged her as tears filled her beautiful green eyes. "We will meet again in another lifetime. Perhaps then I can be the kind of champion that you deserve: Pure of heart and steadfast of purpose. In this life, I am merely a shadow of a man, one whose soul has been tainted. You said it yourself: I am a stone-cold killer. I have done things that would shock and repulse you. It is better this way. You cannot see that now, but, eventually, you will."  
  
Sara angrily dashed away her tears, shaking her head. "No, I don't believe you are ruined, Nottingham. I believe you can redeem yourself. In fact, I know it. What better way to do so than to serve me, the Wielder of the Witchblade? I will never use Its power for evil, as Irons so badly wants me to do. That's why he's so eager to take It from me. With my Protector by my side, I could be nearly invincible, and he knows it. But I need you if I'm to survive, Nottingham. I realize that now. So, please, don't give up on me now. Please!" she pleaded with him.  
  
"I am so tired, my Lady," he whispered, closing his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest. "And everything hurts -- this body, this soul, this life."  
  
"So, that's it, hunh? You're just gonna let Irons win? Because that's what will happen if you die. He wins. I lose. Without you to protect me, it would only be a matter of time before he killed me and took back the Witchblade. And maybe the next Wielder won't be as scrupulous as me. Think of the thousands of innocent lives that would be lost if that happened," she told him. But she could see that her words were not having any effect. Slowly but surely, her Protector was slipping away from her. Desperate to rouse him from his deadly lethargy, she said scornfully "You once said you would do anything to please me, Nottingham. I guess that was just a line!"  
  
"I really wish things had been different, Sara," he murmured, his pale, drawn face wet with tears. "I wish that Irons had never found me in that orphanage, and that you and I had met under different circumstances. But I am what he made me, and nothing you say or do can change that. I am unworthy of the title of Protector. Can you not see that?"  
  
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Ian?" Sara asked him, her voice low and intense. "I see a brilliant man with the heart of a warrior and the gentle soul of a poet. Nothing Irons did to you can change that. I was wrong when I said you were a stone-cold killer without a conscience. If you were, you would have killed Joey in that alley without a second thought. But you didn't. Sure, you've done things at Irons' behest that you're not proud of, but you stood up to him when it counted and helped me out. I would already be dead if it weren't for you. I believe that you are strong enough to break free of him, even if you don't. I believe in you, Ian. I know you are tired, but promise me you won't give up. Promise me!" she urged him.  
  
He turned his head and looked at her, a heartbreaking smile on his lips. "You called me Ian. Twice," he whispered.  
  
"Promise me!" she insisted.  
  
"I promise, my Lady," he acquiesced. "But, in turn, you must promise me that if the attempt to heal me fails, you will not stay and watch me die. At least spare yourself that."  
  
She shook her head. "No deal. Like it or not, we're in this together until the bitter end, which I refuse to believe is tonight."  
  
"Very well," he sighed. "You are very stubborn, Sara."  
  
"And you love that about me," she smiled tiredly. "Admit it."  
  
"I love everything about you, not just that," he said softly, eyes roaming her features, as though memorizing them. "I have loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you."  
  
"But you didn't even know me!" she protested, squirming self-consciously.  
  
"Yes, I did. Our souls have been connected throughout the Witchblade's existence. We are kindred spirits, if you will, for you, too, have the heart of a warrior, my Lady. I will understand if you cannot bring yourself to fall in love with me because of the terrible things I have done, but I wanted you to know how I feel about you in case . . . You may believe in me, but it is the Witchblade that will have the final say on whether my life will be spared. Ultimately, It must decide if I am worthy of the title of Protector."  
  
"Yeah, well I've already accepted you, and I'm the Wielder. That's gotta count for something, right?" Sara jumped, startled, as Robert knocked on the driver-side window. She rolled it down.  
  
"It should be warm enough in there by now. Here are the keys to the front door and the garage," he said, handing them to her. He glanced over at Nottingham. "Hey, Ian. Sorry to hear about your accident and that you're still sick. I hope you start to feel better soon. You and Sara are welcome to stay as long as you like," he told the ailing man  
  
"Thank you, Robert. I am most grateful to you and your wife for your hospitality," Ian said. "I am also very glad that young Joseph is finally safe."  
  
"We all are. I guess we'll really have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Hopefully, you'll be well enough to join us for dinner at my parents' house. Sara, if you need anything, just give us a call, and we'll send Joey over," Robert told her.  
  
"Thanks, Robbie," Sara said. She turned to Nottingham. "Let's get you settled upstairs, and then I'll put the car away and get my, uh, our bags."  
  
"I'll put the car in the garage for you, Sara," Robert offered. "And I'll send Joey up with your bags and the car keys in a little while.  
  
"I appreciate it," she said, getting out and handing him the SUV's keys. She went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for Nottingham. Moving gingerly, he got out, unable to bite back a groan as his ribs barked at him. By the time he got to the top of the stairs that led to the entrance to the apartment above the garage, he was swaying with exhaustion.  
  
Sara unlocked the door and stood aside so Ian could enter first. "Just give me a couple of minutes to make up the bed," she told him, sensing that he was near total collapse.  
  
It took her a few minutes to locate the sheets and then to put them on the queen-size bed in the bedroom. When she came back out to the living room, Nottingham was sitting on the futon.  
  
"Come on, Ian," she said, taking off her down jacket. "I'll help you take off your coat and your clothes, and then we'll get you into bed."  
  
"No," he refused. "If I sit here very still, just like this, the pain is almost bearable."  
  
"You'll be more comfortable in bed," Sara told him, then realized that was probably untrue given how banged up he was. "Okay, maybe you won't be, but once the Witchblade heals you, I have a feeling you'll be out cold for a couple of days. You're too big and heavy for me to move you by myself, so you have to help me out here," she tried reasoning with him.  
  
"My shoulder and ribs really, really hurt, Sara," he told her, grimacing. "I do not think I can handle you removing my sweater."  
  
"We'll take it really slow, okay? Come on, I promise to make you feel better soon," she coaxed him.  
  
"All right," he finally said, obviously struggling with fever-induced irrationality. It took him several minutes to lever himself up off of the sofa, and Sara winced sympathetically at the obvious agony his movements caused him.  
  
Sara helped him out of his overcoat, which she slung over a nearby chair, before he carefully sat on the side of the bed and they began the slow, painful process of removing his sweater. At one point, he begged her to simply cut it off of him, but since it was the only warm clothing he had, she was reluctant to do so. She finally eased it off of him, pausing frequently to give his damaged shoulder's abused nerve-endings a chance to calm down. Trying not to gawk at his impressive, albeit bruised and heavily bandaged, physique, Sara helped him put the sling back on. Kneeling, she first unlaced and then removed his combat boots, setting them aside before pulling off his socks. But when she reached up to unbuckle his belt, he put his gloved right hand over the buckle.  
  
"Come on, Ian, you'll be more comfortable, not to mention cooler, without wool pants on underneath the covers," she told him. "Plus, they're stiff with dried blood."  
  
"Very well," he said after a minute, "but I want to keep my thermal underwear on."  
  
She shook her head. "No can do. I have to be able to change the bandage on your thigh, and that'll be a whole lot easier to do if I don't have to fight with your long johns. Don't be shy, Nottingham. You don't have anything I haven't seen before." 'And from what I've seen so far, you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of!' she thought. 'Mercy!'  
  
"I am extremely uncomfortable without several layers of clothing covering my body," he said stiffly, avoiding her gaze.  
  
"Fair enough, but they're still gonna have to come off. I promise not to stare at you, okay?" Sara told him.  
  
"All right," he reluctantly agreed. "But I will remove them myself in the bathroom. I need to use the toilet anyway."  
  
"Okay," she said, rising and backing away from him. "Yell if you need any help."  
  
Moments after the bathroom door closed behind him, Sara heard a knock at the door. She opened it to find Joey there with her knapsack, duffel bag, the first-aid kit, and the shopping bag containing Ian's discarded shirts and weapons harness.  
  
"This is all there was in the car, Aunt Sara. Didn't Ian bring any luggage?"  
  
"No. He was so feverish, he forgot to pack," Sara murmured.  
  
"Well, Derek -- the guy who was renting this place -- left most of his stuff behind since he plans on coming back next semester. Him and Ian are about the same height and weight, so I bet he'd fit his clothes," he told her.  
  
"That's a great idea. And thanks for bringing the bags up, Joey."  
  
"Sure. Oh, and my mom is packing up a couple of bags of groceries for you and Ian, seeing as the blizzard is gonna make it hard for anybody to get to and from our house for the next couple of days. She told me to ask you if there was anything special you or Ian wanted. Like cookie dough, or something."  
  
Sara thought about it for a moment. "Ask her if she has any peppermint tea."  
  
"I will." The boy hesitated before leaving, glancing toward the closed bedroom door. "Do you think I could see Ian? Your friend Gabriel told me that the bulletproof vest he gave me to wear today was Ian's idea, and I wanted to thank him for looking out for me."  
  
"I don't know about that, Joey," she told him. "He's running a very high fever and is in a lot of pain. Tell you what, while you're getting the groceries, I'll ask him if he feels up to a brief visit."  
  
"Okay. I'll be back in a couple of minutes," Joey said. He left.  
  
Sara opened the bedroom door to find Nottingham standing next to the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs. He'd even removed his ubiquitous black leather gloves.  
  
"You are staring, Sara," he said after nearly a full minute had passed. A blush reddened his already flushed cheeks.  
  
Sara's jaw snapped shut. "Sorry," she muttered, hastily moving to turn down the top sheet on the bed. "Let's get you into bed. I'll throw a couple of blankets on top of you once you're between the sheets."  
  
"I cannot lie flat. It would hurt too much. Could you prop me up with the pillows?" he requested, eyes downcast and face still burning.  
  
"Sure. I spotted one of those reading pillows in the linen closet next to the blankets. I'll just get it," Sara told him. She grabbed the corduroy pillow, a couple of blankets and a down comforter from the closet next to the bathroom.  
  
Groaning, Ian once again sat on the side of the bed as she positioned the pillow against the headboard. Sara froze as she noticed the half-healed welts and cuts that marred the skin of his back above and below the bandage around his ribs, as well as numerous older scars that were unmistakably the result of severe beatings. "Okay, lean back," she murmured, hiding her shock and revulsion with an effort. "I'll help you swing your legs up onto the bed."  
  
"Ow, ow, ow!" he cried softly as his ribs stabbed at him cruelly.  
  
Sara put another pillow behind him to support his head. "Better?"  
  
"No. I am really hurting, Sara," he moaned, his face twisting with pain as the muscles in the area of his fractured collarbone started to spasm viciously. The pain block had failed with excruciating consequences.  
  
"I know, I know. I promise to take the pain away soon," she soothed, brushing tendrils of dark hair away from his frighteningly hot forehead. As before, he turned his face into the coolness of her hand, blindly seeking comfort.  
  
There came the sound of a knock at the front door. "That'll be Joey with some groceries to tide us over for the next few days. He wanted to thank you for lending him that bulletproof vest, Ian, but I'll tell him you're not feeling up to it," she told the suffering man.  
  
"No, no, it is all right. I would like to see him," Ian said, barely catching himself before adding "one last time."  
  
"Okay, but just for a minute. I've gotta make that attempt to heal you, and the sooner the better," Sara said. She went and opened the door, grabbing one of the bags of food from Joey and setting it on the counter of the tiny kitchenette.  
  
"Can I see him?" the teenager asked, unzipping his coat. Beneath it, Sara saw that he wore the bulletproof vest. "I wanted to return this to him, too."  
  
"Yes, but just for a minute, okay?"  
  
Sara decided to wait in the living room, for fear that she might burst into tears again, upsetting her nephew and Ian. As she put away the groceries, she could hear the boy's rather subdued tones and the low rumble of Nottingham's voice in reply, but not what they said to each other. A few minutes later, Joey came out of the bedroom, face somber with concern.  
  
"He's really sick and beat up, hunh?" he whispered, putting his coat back on.  
  
"Yeah, he is," Sara whispered back. She enveloped the lanky youth in a tight hug, sending a devout prayer of thanks to the heavens above -- and to the Witchblade -- that he was still alive.  
  
"Hey, look! It started snowing!" Joey said, when she finally let him go. He looked at his aunt's exhausted face, noticing that her eyes that were red and puffy from crying. "Don't worry, Aunt Sara, Ian is going to be okay. I just know it," he reassured her. "See you both in a couple of days!"  
  
"See you, kiddo," she murmured, as the door closed behind him. "I truly hope you're right." For a few moments, she stood there staring out the window at the white flakes falling rapidly from the sky, and then turned and reentered the bedroom.  
More to come! Thanks for your feedback and ongoing encouragement. The end of this, my inaugural Witchblade fanfic, is in sight! 


	40. Chapter 41

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. Just borrowing them a while! Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 41.  
  
It was obvious that Ian was in agony, but Sara did not understand why his pain was suddenly so severe. Up until just a few minutes ago, aside from winces and one or two soft groans, he had been remarkably stoic given the seriousness of his injuries. In fact, she had thought it strange that the assassin hadn't displayed more outward signs of discomfort. The dislocated shoulder alone would have laid most men low, yet Nottingham had barely batted an eye when she had popped the joint back in.  
  
"What's going on here?" she murmured to herself. 'Aside from the hellish fever that's killing him,' she added mentally.  
  
"I had been using a pain-blocking technique," Ian responded, voice rough with pain. "But it is only meant to be temporary, so that I can continue to fight or, alternatively, flee. Now that we have found refuge, the block has failed."  
  
"Hmmm. Neat trick," Sara said. "But now payment has come due in a big way, hunh? Well, hopefully, you won't have to suffer much longer. I'm gonna try healing you with the Witchblade now," she told him, tucking one of the blankets she had brought out from the linen closet around his pain- wracked body before spreading the other blanket and the down comforter over him.  
  
Sara sat down on the side of the bed. 'Well, here goes nothing,' she thought, and concentrated on willing the bracelet on her right wrist into gauntlet form. It morphed obediently, covering her hand and forearm in gleaming silver. The Witchblade's softly glowing red "eye" slowly opened, seeming to regard the sick and injured man on the bed with mild interest. Lifting her metal-encased hand, Sara placed it on Nottingham's burning forehead.  
  
At first nothing happened, but then Ian stiffened, crying out, and the Witchblade threw them both into visions.  
  
****  
  
Sara found herself standing in the library of Kenneth Irons' estate in Westchester. In front of her was a structure she had failed to notice during her only previous visit to this room in the billionaire's home -- usually, he granted her an audience in his study. The boxy structure was about six feet by six feet in size and was enshrouded by heavy brocade curtains the same blood-red shade as the Witchblade's stone. Suddenly, some unseen mechanism caused the drapes to be drawn aside, revealing a glass-enclosed chamber. Frost patterned the inside of the glass, sparkling diamond-bright in the light from the fire in the hearth on the other side of the room. Sara gasped as she noticed the figure seated on a velvet chaise lounge that matched the color of the drapes. It was a woman, and she was dressed in a beautiful, emerald-green gown trimmed with ecru lace. But it was her face that had caused Sara's shocked inhalation, for it could have been that of her twin sister if she'd had one. Even her hair was the exact same chestnut hue as Sara's, except it was done up in a style that had been popular in a bygone era. The young woman's green eyes, also virtually identical to her own, were open and staring, her red lips slightly parted, as if she were about to speak or, perhaps, smile. Only her skin tone differed significantly from Sara's. It was a translucent alabaster, giving her the appearance of one of those incredibly lifelike statues found in wax museums. Sara cried out in surprise, stumbling back a few steps, when the woman's head turned toward her.  
  
"I did not mean to frighten you, Wielder," she said, and even her low, husky voice was strikingly similar to her own. "You need never fear me."  
  
"Who, who are you?" Sara stammered.  
  
"I am Elizabeth Bronte," the woman introduced herself, and Sara jumped as she suddenly appeared next to her. She nodded toward the icy crypt. "And those are my earthly remains."  
  
It was then Sara noticed that this Elizabeth Bronte was dressed differently than the corpse seated on the chaise. She wore an impeccably tailored, dove-gray suit that had probably been the height of fashion in the late 1930s/early 1940s. A matching hat sat on her upswept coif, throwing her hauntingly familiar features into shadow. She glanced at Sara and smiled warmly, her lips the dark red color that the goddesses of the silver screen had made popular during that same era. "I, too, was a Wielder. The last before you," she told her.  
  
"So, that makes you, what, my grandmother?" Sara asked slowly. Up close, the resemblance between them was even more uncanny, and she felt a chill run up and down her spine.  
  
"Something like that. We are of the same bloodline," Elizabeth Bronte said. Turning gracefully, she strolled over to the fire, holding white-gloved hands out to the flames.  
  
Sara blinked as she saw her thrust her hands into the flames without any apparent ill effect. After several moments, she straightened, sighing, and turned to regard Sara again. "You are at a crossroads, Wielder, as is your Protector."  
  
"I'm trying to heal him with the Witchblade," Sara told her. "Please tell me it's working!"  
  
Elizabeth Bronte shook her head. "No. I am afraid your attempt, although noble, will fail. He will die."  
  
"NO!" Sara shouted. "I refuse to believe that! I can't lose him! Not now. I need him. We need him!" she pleaded, holding up the bracelet, whose dark-red stone was glowing feebly.  
  
"He will die," Elizabeth repeated, "unless he finds the will to live. And that is something only he can discover within himself."  
  
Sara threw up her hands in frustration. "But he's my Protector! You said it yourself. Why won't the Witchblade heal him?" she asked her doppelganger.  
  
"Because although what was done to him was undeniably evil, it was not done to him while he was protecting you. Only injuries the Protector receives in defense of the Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade," Elizabeth told her.  
  
"Oh. I guess I forgot to read the fine print," Sara mumbled. Despair filled her as she realized that she was helpless to save Nottingham. "So, what you're telling me is that he's going to die," she whispered, tears filling her eyes.  
  
"Yes, unless he finds the will to live," Elizabeth repeated. "And if, by some chance, the Protector chooses life, he has an even more difficult task ahead of him. He must find the strength to do something I myself was unable to: Free himself from Kenneth Irons' grasp."  
  
Suddenly, the white-haired billionaire materialized in front of Elizabeth Bronte's icy crypt -- right next to Sara. She flinched away from him in fear and revulsion, but he didn't seem to notice her as he gazed adoringly at the painstakingly preserved body of the last Wielder of the Witchblade.  
  
"He was in love with you!" Sara was astonished to realize.  
  
Elizabeth came to stand beside the oblivious Kenneth Irons, and a look of profound sadness crossed her lovely features as she studied his face.  
  
"Yes," she murmured, "but it was a dark, obsessive love. What he really lusted after was the Witchblade and the power It bestows upon Its Wielder. He covets that power and will go to any lengths to possess it. I did not discover this until it was too late." She sighed, turning her back on her former lover and walking over to the hearth again. "But that is a story for another day. Now, you must listen very carefully to me if you want your Protector to survive. Do you truly want this and all that it entails, Wielder?"  
  
"Yes," Sara answered without hesitation, joining her by the fire. It was only then that she realized she could neither feel the warmth of the flames nor hear their crackling roar. She remembered the other woman's trick with her hands, but could not bring herself to try it.  
  
"As his title implies, your Protector's duty is to protect you, the Wielder, from your foes. It was what he was born to do. But you, in turn, are responsible for his wellbeing. If you continue to deny your destiny and refuse to learn how to expertly wield the Witchblade in all of Its many forms, you are doomed to the same fate as me, Sara Pezzini. If you die, your Protector will die, too. It is a heavy burden, I know. My own Protector was killed because of my folly, and without him to protect me, I did not outlive him very long," Elizabeth Bronte told her sadly.  
  
"He's in love with me," Sara murmured. "What do I do about that little complication?"  
  
Elizabeth smiled, green eyes sparkling with amusement. "What your heart tells you to do." She glanced toward Kenneth Irons who was still staring at her frozen corpse, and her smile slipped. Sara was stunned to see that there were tears on the billionaire's pale cheeks. Against her will, the sight elicited a pang of pity from her.  
  
"You are right: he is undeserving of your pity," Elizabeth said coldly. "He is your enemy, Wielder. Never forget that. He would destroy you in a heartbeat to regain control of the Witchblade. And he holds sway over your Protector. You must do everything in your power to free him of the Iron Man's control. Only then can he serve you in the manner he was born to."  
  
"But how can I help him do that? He thinks of him as his father, even though the twisted bastard treats him like a dog. And beats him like one, too. He beats him!" Sara said, feeling rage fill her at the memory of the fresh cuts and old scars she had discovered on Ian Nottingham's back just a short while ago.  
  
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, he is a cruel master. He always has been, even when he was still capable of love," she murmured, her gaze drifting back to Irons. "I cannot lie to you: Should your Protector choose life, which remains to be seen, it will not be easy for him to win his freedom from Kenneth Irons, Sara. His ability to inspire mindless loyalty and devotion despite his cruelty is legendary. He could have changed the course of history had he chosen to use this power for good instead of evil. Perhaps no one knows that better than me," she said, bitterness coating her words. Green eyes so eerily like her own met Sara's once again. "As for how you can help your Protector win his freedom, Sara, it is really rather simple: Never stop believing in him. Irons very nearly succeeded in turning him into a creature of darkness like himself, and despite Ian's basic decency, he eventually would have.  
  
"But then the Witchblade chose you as Its next Wielder, and your Protector awoke as if from a bad dream. Your morality and honesty drew him like a moth to flame. To him, you are this shining light that can lead him out of the shadows forever. But it is your steadfast faith in him that just might make all the difference in whether or not he succeeds in this, the most difficult and important battle he has ever fought in his brief, unhappy existence. Teach him joy and laughter, Sara, something his life has been sadly lacking up until now. Your compassion and capacity for love is boundless, Wielder. That is why Kenneth Irons so badly wants to take the Witchblade from you. You care nothing for the power It gives you, and he cannot fathom this. He also knows that once Ian Nottingham discovers what true friendship and love are like, he will lose him forever. You were correct when you told your Protector that with him by your side, you could be nearly invincible. But he must be whole in spirit and in mind in order for this to come to pass. He must break the chains that bind him to the Iron Man."  
  
"So, basically, what you're saying is all I have to do is give Nottingham some heartfelt nooky, and he'll leave Irons and be mine forever?" Sara asked, face reddening. "Honestly, do I even have a say in this? The way the Witchblade keeps egging me on, it sure doesn't feel like it."  
  
Elizabeth Bronte smiled. "You must do what your heart tells you to do, Sara," she said again. "But choose wisely. Your life, and that of your Protector, depends on it." She approached Kenneth Irons again where he still stood gazing at her in her icy crypt. "Good luck to you and your Protector, Wielder."  
  
"Wait! Will I see you again?" Sara asked her. "In another vision, I mean, not all dead and frozen," she clarified.  
  
"If the Witchblade wills it and you have need of guidance, yes, you shall. Me or others like me."  
  
"You mean other past Wielders?"  
  
"Past and future. Time flows both ways," she said, her voice and image slowly beginning to fade away. "Remember, trust in your instincts, Sara Pezzini, and follow your heart." Sara could see through her slender figure now. Just before she disappeared entirely, Elizabeth Bronte leaned close to Kenneth Irons and whispered something in his ear, her ethereal hand rising to caress his tear-streaked face. Then she was gone.  
  
Sara felt the familiar sensation of the vision beginning to release her, but not before she saw the white-haired billionaire flinch, then glance wildly around the empty room, before raising a trembling hand to touch his cheek.  
  
****  
  
Ian Nottingham stood on a battlefield, dressed entirely in armor. A ferocious battle raged all around him, and the dead and the dying lay at his blood-spattered feet. In his right hand, he held a double-edged broadsword whose gleaming silver blade was intricately etched with runes. He was stunned to see that the hilt of the sword was virtually indistinguishable from the elaborate gauntlet that covered his hand, and that the armor encasing his hand and arm seamlessly flowed together. A large blue stone, which glowed from within with a hypnotic pulsing light, was set in the gauntlet. With a jolt, Ian realized that he wielded Excalibur, the legendary blade of the First Protector.  
  
Abruptly, an attacker came at him. Ian parried his opponent's sword thrust almost without thought. Their blades met with a sharp ringing sound, and through the slit in his visor, Ian saw the other knight's eyes widen in shock as his sword's blade shattered into several pieces. Excalibur's shining length sang a deadly song as it cut through the frosty air, parting the other man's armor as if it were paper and piercing his chest. He fell, mortally wounded, his heart's blood coloring the lines of the runes red, making them writhe and crawl. The stone in the gauntlet absorbed the color, turning the same dark red as the Witchblade's stone for an instant before changing back to blue. What felt like a mild electric shock went through Ian, and the colors, smells, sounds, and sights of the battlefield intensified. 'Well met, my love,' a voice said in his head, and his gaze was drawn to a nearby hilltop, where an armor-clad woman sat upon a coal-black charger. She raised her right hand in salute, and he saw that she wielded a very familiar broadsword. 'The foe you just defeated was my enemy's best swordsman. Soon, the rest of them will scatter before us like chaff in the wind,' she exulted, and he clearly sensed her satisfaction.  
  
"Behold the last of your kind to wield Excalibur, Protector," another feminine voice said, and abruptly it was as though Ian were hovering above the battlefield, watching the man whose body he'd inhabited only moments before engage another opponent in battle. The voice seemed to echo inside his skull, or perhaps it was a trio of voices, those of an old crone, a young woman, and a girl child.  
  
"He was a True Protector, the only kind permitted to wield Excalibur, which made him nearly invincible on the battlefield. You, on the other hand, have been judged and found wanting," the voices hissed. "Because of your weakness, the current Wielder will not survive much longer, and We will be forced to find another True Wielder, which could take decades. The bloodline is thin, and We had foolishly counted on you to safeguard the Bladewielder long enough for her to strengthen and extend it."  
  
"But I am not dead yet," Ian protested. "Am I?"  
  
Mocking laughter echoed through his fevered brain.  
  
"It no longer matters, Protector," the voices spat the title derisively. "Without you to guard her, this Wielder will not live long enough to carry on the pure bloodline. Perhaps, in the next lifetime, you will be strong enough to fulfill your duty to her and to Us, guaranteeing that the line survives for another generation. Now death is your only certainty in this life, and soon. But that is what you secretly long for, is it not? An end to your miserable existence?"  
  
"No!" Ian denied. "I do not want to die. I want to live. For her. She needs me. I am her Protector!"  
  
"It is not enough to want to live for her. You must also want to live for you. It is the only way you can win your freedom from the Iron Man. And to truly serve Us and Our Wielder, you must be free. Are you strong enough for that, Protector?"  
  
"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "I am strong enough."  
  
"Prove it," the voices said, growing fainter. "Prove to Us that you are worthy to be called the Bladewielder's Protector."  
  
"How?" Ian asked desperately, feeling the vision start to release him. "How can I prove it to you?"  
  
"By living," the voices whispered. "By living."  
  
****  
  
Sara blinked, the disorientation that typically followed one of the Witchblade's visions much less severe than usual. Ian Nottingham moaned, and she quickly removed her gauntleted hand from his dry, extremely hot forehead.  
  
"It did not work," he breathed, opening glassy, pain-darkened eyes.  
  
"No, it didn't," Sara said softly, as the Witchblade returned to bracelet form. "I'm so sorry, Ian."  
  
"It is all right, my Lady," he told her. "It was worth a try."  
  
"Ian," Sara hesitated, reluctant to admit defeat. "There's still time to get the antidote from Irons," she finally said.  
  
He started shaking his head even before she finished speaking. "No. After I received it, he would order me to be taken back to the estate -- by force, if necessary. It is too dangerous. You or your family could be killed."  
  
"I'm not so easy to kill," she murmured, "but, unfortunately, you're right about my family being in harm's way."  
  
"Besides," Ian sighed, "I have made my choice."  
  
Sara gazed at him uneasily, remembering what Elizabeth Bronte had told her in the vision about his only chance for survival. She got the distinct feeling that he hadn't chosen life. Getting to her feet, she started pacing at the foot of the bed. "I can't just let you die, Ian. There must be something I can do," she muttered. A thought struck her. "This poison you were injected with, did Dr. Immo say it would definitely be fatal if you didn't receive the antidote?"  
  
Nottingham did not answer right away and she glanced sharply at him, thinking he might have passed out. But she saw that his eyes were open, although he was staring off into space as if deep in thought -- or trapped in a fever-induced hallucination.  
  
"Every cloud has a silver lining," he said slowly.  
  
"Excuse me?" she said, terrified that he had finally lost his hold on reality.  
  
"That is what Dr. Immo said to me right after he injected me with the toxin," Ian murmured, frowning. There was a maddening tickle at the back of his mind, and he struggled to figure out what his subconscious was trying to tell him, but the roar of the fever made it nearly impossible for him to concentrate. To make matters worse, his chills had returned, worsening the already severe pain of his ribs and shoulder.  
  
"You didn't answer my question," Sara said, dismayed to notice that he'd begun shivering again.  
  
With an effort, he focused on her. "He said the poison would k-kill me if I d-did not receive the antidote." He licked dry lips. "I am thirsty, S-Sara. Could you please m-make me some peppermint t-tea?" he asked her.  
  
"Sure," Sara said, realizing that he was trying to spare her the pain of watching him suffer. "But that will take a while. How about a glass of water in the meantime?"  
  
He shook his head. "There is s-some tea left in the th-thermos in the c-car. It will have b-become c-cold by now, but I d-do not m-mind."  
  
"I'll go get it. Be right back," she said, barely holding back tears.  
  
Feeling cowardly for taking the out he had offered, she put on her down jacket, hat, and scarf before grabbing the car keys and the keys to the garage off the countertop. Outside, the snow was coming down heavily, and the ground was already liberally coated with white. The stairs were treacherous but Sara flew down them with reckless haste. Her tears made it difficult to see the lock on the garage door and her bare fingers quickly became clumsy with cold, but finally she got the door open. The SUV's engine was still making the ticking sounds that car engines make as they cool down. Disarming the alarm, Sara opened the passenger-side door, flinching as she noticed that the seat was stained with Nottingham's blood. Without warning, her body began to convulse with great, gasping sobs, and she sagged against the car. Several minutes passed before she managed to regain control of herself, and she knew that it would be obvious that she'd been crying. But there was nothing for it. She got what she had come for, locked up the car and the garage, and wearily trudged through the snow and back up the stairs.  
  
As soon as the door to the apartment had closed behind Sara, Ian Nottingham had given vent to a cry of pain. His battered body's inflamed nerve-endings were punishing him mercilessly and he felt so very, very cold, colder even than when he'd been submerged in the ice-water baths earlier that day. He didn't realize Sara had returned until he heard her say "Oh God," in a heartbroken little voice, and opened his eyes to see her standing at the foot of the bed holding a mug of the tea he had requested.  
  
"S-so c-cold," he muttered through chattering teeth.  
  
"I'll get you another blanket," she said, setting the mug down on the night table, and his heart contracted as he saw how red and puffy her eyes were in her pale, exhausted face.  
  
Sara found another down comforter and a third thermal cotton blanket in the linen closet, both of which she threw over the trembling man. He was moaning softly, and the sound tore at her heart. She was pretty sure he wasn't even conscious that he was doing it. She stood there next to the bed, watching him inch closer to death with every passing minute, helpless to save him or to ease his suffering.  
  
Ian drifted into a semiconscious stupor. Bizarre images began to flash through his overheated brain, and he realized that he was dangerously close to becoming delirious. One image in particular kept resurfacing: clouds rolling across a scintillating blue sky. With the last shreds of his sanity, he struggled to remember where he'd seen it before. Abruptly, words began to scroll across the image. 'Every cloud has a silver lining,' they said. As he watched, the word "lining" floated up and away from the others, growing larger and larger, and suddenly he remembered where he had seen the image before.  
  
"Sara," he whispered, unable to summon the strength to open his eyes.  
  
"Yes?" she said instantly, gently placing a blessedly cool hand on his forehead. True to her word, she had refused to leave his side, even though it must have been apparent that the end was near for him.  
  
"My coat," he said. It took an enormous effort to form coherent words, and he could feel lucidity inexorably slipping away.  
  
"What about it?" she asked, glancing toward the chair where she'd flung his overcoat earlier, noticing that Joey had placed the bulletproof vest on top of it.  
  
"Antidote," he breathed, "in . . . lining."  
  
"What?" she frowned in confusion. 'Oh God,' she thought, 'it's happened: He's delirious.'  
  
"Immo put . . . antidote . . . in . . . lining," Ian forced out. "Look there."  
  
Sara's eyes burned as she reached over and picked up his torn and dirty overcoat, but no tears came. She had cried herself dry. "Okay, Ian, I'm looking." Dutifully, she ran the bottom of the coat through her hand. "There's nothing there," she whispered sadly, then froze as her fingers brushed against an object in the very corner of the garment. "Wait a sec, I found something."  
  
Hope blossomed in her heart, and she held her breath as she turned on the lamp that sat on the night table and examined the lining of Ian's overcoat more closely. It took nearly a minute for her to find the small slit in the satin material. It was about six inches above the hem and looked like it had been deliberately made, perhaps with a scalpel, the edges were so clean. Sara started to work the narrow, cylindrical object toward the tiny hole, then, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity, she ripped at the tear, making it much larger.  
  
"It's a loaded syringe," she exhaled, holding it up for him to see. But his eyes remained closed.  
  
"Inject me . . . with it," he told her.  
  
"But how can you be sure it's the antidote, Ian?" she protested.  
  
"Inject . . . me," Ian insisted, pulling his right arm from beneath the blankets with a monumental effort. "Have . . . no . . . other . . . choice."  
  
"So true," she muttered. Uncapping the syringe, she flicked it to force any bubbles to the surface, then expelled a minute amount of the liquid along with any air, just as she'd seen doctors and nurses do on TV countless times. Taking a deep breath, she stuck the needle into Nottingham's arm and injected the contents of the syringe into his vein.  
  
"Please work," she prayed. "Don't let it be too late."  
  
The alarm clock on the night table said 11:11 p.m.  
  
More to come. As always, thanks for all of the lovely feedback. We're in the home stretch, folks! Really! 


	41. Chapter 42

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them for a wee bit. Okay, maybe not a wee bit. Enjoy!  
Chapter 42.  
Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, Sara maintained a vigil over her Protector, anxiously watching and waiting to see if the antidote had been administered in time, and, more importantly, whether Ian Nottingham had found the will to live. Minutes felt like hours as they crawled by. Frighteningly, his fever reached 106.4, causing him to become semi- delirious. He began to toss and turn restlessly, regardless of his injuries, and Sara quickly discovered that the only thing that would calm him was her touch and the sound of her voice. He would still as soon as she placed a cool hand upon his burning forehead, and the lines of suffering on his haggard face and the tension in his sorely abused body would ease. Saying anything that came into her head, she spoke to him constantly in a low murmur. Outside, the wind howled and the snow increased in intensity as the ferocious early winter storm pounded the tri- state area.  
  
Sara developed a kink in her back from sitting on the side of the bed in an awkward position, and she decided to change out of her jeans and cropped top into something more comfortable.  
  
"Ian, I'll be right back, okay?" she told him, not expecting a response. Aside from occasionally muttering feverishly, he had not spoken since receiving the antidote.  
  
"Where are you going?" he asked querulously, without opening his eyes.  
  
"Just to grab something from my bag in the living room," she said, gently tucking a curl behind his ear. "I'll only be a minute, okay?"  
  
He nodded, but as soon as she broke physical contact, he swiftly became restless again, scowling and kicking at the blankets covering his overheated body. Going into the living room, Sara hurriedly changed into her sleepwear of choice -- boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt -- leaving her discarded clothing in a heap on the floor. And although she could hear that Nottingham was becoming more and more agitated, she took another minute to get a couple of painkillers from the first-aid kit and to fill a large bowl with water and ice cubes. When she walked back into the bedroom, Ian was struggling to free himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets in order to get out of the bed.  
  
"Sara!" he shouted frantically, "Sara!"  
  
Rushing to the bedside, she set the bowl down on the floor next to the night table. "Shhh, shhh, I'm back, Ian," she soothed him, caressing his hot face.  
  
"Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone," he murmured, bloodshot eyes staring up at her accusingly. He groaned, grimacing, his right hand grasping his side. "My ribs and my shoulder hurt, Sara. A lot."  
  
"I've got something that'll make you feel better soon," she told him. "Open your mouth." Obediently, he did so, and she placed the painkillers on his tongue and then brought the mug of cold peppermint tea to his lips. "Drink a little of this," she coaxed him. Thirstily, he drank the entire mug. She poured him some more, but he refused it, so she set it on the night table.  
  
"Let's get these blankets straightened out," she said, wondering how on earth he had managed to get them so thoroughly tangled around himself in the few minutes she'd been gone.  
  
He frowned, flinging the blankets off as soon as she covered him with them. "I am already too hot. I have a very high fever, Sara," he informed her.  
  
"You'll catch a chill if you don't keep them on, Ian," she tried reasoning with him.  
  
"No," he scowled, "I think they are making me delirious."  
  
"Okay, let's compromise. If you keep one blanket and one comforter on, I'll lie down on the bed next to you," she cajoled.  
  
"All right," he agreed instantly, eyeing the long, shapely legs that her boxer shorts revealed.  
  
'Delirious my ass,' Sara thought, hiding a smile as she spread a cotton thermal blanket and then one of the down comforters over him. She folded the two other cotton blankets, setting them aside, and tossed the other comforter onto the other side of the bed.  
  
Picking up the bowl of ice water, she grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet before climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside Ian, careful not to jar him. Soaking the washcloth and then wringing it out, she applied a cold compress to his forehead.  
  
"You are too kind to me, my Lady," he murmured, head falling back against the pillows.  
  
"Anything for my Protector," Sara told him, smiling.  
  
Several minutes later, his big body began to visibly relax. "Ahhh, sweet, lovely Demerol," Ian sighed, eyelids drooping. Rousing, he attempted to level a stern look at her, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the goofy grin on his face. "You might catch a chill, Sara. Perhaps you should get under the covers with me," he told her.  
  
"Uh, I'm fine. Does this mean you're no longer dying?" she asked him wryly.  
  
"You, in bed, with me," he whispered, eyes closing. "I think I have already died and gone to heaven."  
  
"Good answer," Sara grinned, but he had fallen asleep.  
  
Shortly after midnight, Nottingham's fever finally broke. Perspiration began pouring off of him, quickly soaking the sheets and cotton blanket. Sara changed the top sheet and replaced the wet blanket with a dry one, but decided there wasn't anything she could do about the bottom sheet. Ian roused briefly, and she got him to drink more tea and to let her take his temperature. It was 104.5, and she whispered a devout prayer of thanks. Her Protector was on the mend. He fell into a deeper, more restful sleep, and now that his crisis had passed, Sara's eyelids began to grow heavy. Days of little to no sleep and an inhuman amount of stress were finally catching up to her. She decided to lie down next to Ian and grab a quick nap. The last thing she remembered was covering herself with the other down comforter.  
  
Ian's restless movements awakened her. Groggily, she glanced at the clock and was appalled to realize that eight hours had passed, although it felt like she had only been asleep for a few minutes. It was 9:30 a.m.  
  
"Thirsty," Nottingham whispered, and Sara sat up and carefully scrambled off the bed. She poured him the last of the peppermint tea, and he drank it down eagerly.  
  
"I'll go brew some more," she said, and with an obvious effort, he managed to open his eyes halfway.  
  
"More painkillers, please," he murmured, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder beneath the covers.  
  
"Coming right up." After a quick trip to the bathroom, Sara went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Thirstily, she drank two glasses of water before pouring another one for Nottingham, which he downed along with two Tylenol with Codeine tablets. Within minutes, he had fallen asleep again.  
  
Sara got out her cell phone and called Danny Woo.  
  
"Woo residence," her partner answered the phone.  
  
"Hey, Danny, it's me."  
  
"Pez! How goes it?"  
  
"Ian's on the mend," she told him.  
  
"That's good news."  
  
"Listen, could you do me a favor and call the job for me? Tell them I'm gonna take some sick time for the next few days," she requested.  
  
"Um, have you looked outside yet, Pez?" Danny said. "We're socked in. Governor Pataki has declared a state of emergency, which means all nonessential personnel are banned from the roads. There's already more than a foot of snow on the ground, and it's still coming down like crazy."  
  
It was only then that Sara became aware of the gusts of wind buffeting the garage apartment. She glanced out the window and saw nothing but white. Even her brother's house right across the driveway wasn't visible. "Wow!" she breathed.  
  
"It's a blizzard, baby!" Danny crowed.  
  
"You don't have to sound so happy about it," Sara grumbled.  
  
"I'm just glad me and my family are inside and cozy," he said. "You still sound whipped, Pez."  
  
"I am. Things got pretty rough last night before Ian's fever broke, and I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep over the past few days," she murmured.  
  
"Well, the way it's snowing, we might not be able to get into work until midweek! But on Monday, I'll call the job for you and tell them that you're taking some sick leave. Get some rest, and I'll speak to you soon, okay?  
  
"Thanks, partner. Bye." Sara hung up and then immediately called Vicky's cell phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Vic. It's me."  
  
"Sara! How's it going?"  
  
"Jake is right there, hunh?"  
  
"Yup, we just woke up. Say, 'Hi, Sara,' Jake," Vicky said. "Hi, Sara," she heard Jake say in the background.  
  
"Tell him I said 'hi,'" Sara said.  
  
"Sara says 'hi,' Jake. So, how's the head?" Vicky asked, tongue firmly in cheek.  
  
"It was touch and go for a while there, but Ian's fever finally broke a little after midnight. He's still in a lot of pain, but I'm medicating him, and he's resting," Sara told her.  
  
"I'm really glad you're feeling better, girlfriend."  
  
"How are things going at Chez McCartey?"  
  
"Oh, we're having a ball, right Jake?"  
  
"Absolutely," Sara heard the blond rookie say.  
  
"I'm glad to hear that, Vic," Sara told her truthfully. "Listen, should I change that bandage on Nottingham's thigh today? Or will it be all right until tomorrow?"  
  
"It's supposed to snow until tomorrow," Vicky said.  
  
"Gotcha. Oh, I'm taking some sick leave next week, so I probably won't see you until after Thanksgiving. Thanks again for helping Ian out," she said. "I owe you one."  
  
"Anytime. Try to relax and get some more rest, and I'll see you when you get back to work, okay?" Vicky said.  
  
"Yeah. Bye." Sara called Gabriel Bowman next.  
  
"Talismaniac. Having trouble conceiving? I've got just the fertility goddess statue that'll do the trick."  
  
"Hey, Gabriel."  
  
"Chief! Hey, how's Nottingham?"  
  
"Better. Turns out the antidote to the poison was hidden in the lining of his coat all along. After hiding it there, this Dr. Immo guy gave Ian a subliminal message telling him where it was, and he figured out what it meant in the nick of time."  
  
"Wow, that's amazing. How are you holding up?" Gabriel asked.  
  
"I managed to sleep for eight hours last night but it barely put a dent in my exhaustion," she told him truthfully. "Luckily, Ian hasn't required much in the way of nursing so far, just liquids and pain pills." The kettle started to shrill, and turning off the flame, Sara poured the hot water over several teabags. Peppermint-scented steam wafted upward.  
  
"Well, at least you don't have to think about going into work today. This is some storm, hunh?"  
  
"Yeah. I asked Danny to tell the job that I'm taking some sick leave next week. Ian is probably gonna be laid up for some time and I could really use the rest."  
  
"Don't be surprised if he turns out to be a really quick healer, Chief," Gabriel told her.  
  
"He's got broken ribs and a severely strained shoulder. I don't think he'll be kung fu fighting anytime soon."  
  
"Yeah, but something still tells me he'll be up and around sooner than you think."  
  
"Probably not soon enough though. I'm worried Irons is going to send some of his goons after him once the city digs out from this storm."  
  
"I hate to say this, but you're probably right. Irons will not take no for an answer where a prized possession like Nottingham is concerned."  
  
"But what really scares me is my suspicion that Ian might not object too strongly when the time comes."  
  
"You think he'll go back to Irons even after what he did to him?"  
  
"Irons is his father, Gabriel. At least, that's what Ian thinks of him as," Sara told him.  
  
"His father? Wow, that's deep. It's always been rumored that Irons has a kid floating around somewhere, but nobody's ever been able to prove it. I never would have guessed it was Nottingham."  
  
"Well, he says he's not sure if Irons really is his biological father, but the twisted bastard is the only parent he's ever known," Sara told her friend. She looked in on the sleeping man before closing the bedroom door and taking a seat on the futon. "Gabriel, when I tried to heal Ian with the Witchblade, It gave me a vision."  
  
"I was wondering if you had gone ahead and tried that," Gabriel murmured. "Obviously, it didn't work."  
  
"Yeah. Apparently, that's because only injuries a Protector receives while defending his Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade. The woman who came to me in the vision informed me of this. She also said her name was Elizabeth Bronte, and that she was the last True Wielder before me. Plus, she was a dead ringer for yours truly. What do you know about her, Gabriel? Did she really exist?"  
  
"Yeah, she did, but, unfortunately, there's not a lot of info out there about her. It was rumored that she was a spy for both the U.S. and British Intelligence during World War II, but those records are sealed and will be for some time. However, it is well known that Adolph Hitler was an avid collector of objects of power. The story goes that in exchange for promising not to loot and destroy the Vatican, he was given the Witchblade by the Roman Catholic church, which had kept It hidden away for centuries. Apparently, Elizabeth Bronte was the mistress of a high-ranking S.S. officer. Somehow, she charmed her lover into letting her wear the Witchblade and It recognized her as a True Wielder. Rumor has it that, with the Witchblade's aid, she was instrumental in helping the allies crack the Enigma code, which ultimately led to the Germans' defeat. However, shortly after the war ended, she disappeared, never to be heard from again," Gabriel told her.  
  
"Well, if the vision was telling the truth, I know what became of her. Kenneth Irons murdered her and her Protector and took the Witchblade from her. She hinted that she and Irons were once lovers, but I don't see how that's possible. Irons doesn't look a day over 35 and you're telling me that Elizabeth Bronte was my age during World War II."  
  
"Yeah, but Irons tried to wield the Witchblade once, and although It rejected him, It gave him what you now possess: a considerably extended lifespan. Irons real birth date is a carefully guarded secret, but estimates put him closer to 100 than 35."  
  
"No shit? You mean if I'm still alive 50 years from now, I'll look the same age that I do now?"  
  
"Pretty much, yeah."  
  
"What about Nottingham?"  
  
"Since he was born with a bond to the Witchblade, the same will probably hold true for him. He'll age, but very slowly."  
  
"Wow. It's gonna be pretty hard to explain to the job why I'm putting in for a pension when I still look 30," Sara murmured. A huge yawn caught her by surprise.  
  
"Get some more sleep, Chief," Gabriel said, obviously hearing it. "I'll talk to you in a couple of days."  
  
"Yeah. And thanks for the info," Sara said. "Bye, Gabriel." She hung up and sat there mulling over what her friend had just told her. A sound from the bedroom roused her a short while later, and she realized that she'd dozed off. When she opened the bedroom door, she was stunned to see Ian sitting on the side of the bed in preparation of getting up.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where do you think you're going?" Sara asked him, moving to stand in front of him.  
  
"I woke up and you were gone," Ian said, blinking blearily up at her.  
  
"I was just in the kitchen making more peppermint tea," she told him. "I didn't go anywhere. Here, lie back down," she said, attempting to straighten the bedclothes, which had gotten tangled around him again.  
  
"I need to use the bathroom," he muttered, rubbing his face.  
  
"Okay, but then I want you to get right back in bed," Sara said, freeing him from the blankets and sheet. "Do you need me to help you?"  
  
"No," Ian said. He sat there for another minute, summoning the energy to move. Finally, he managed to get to his feet and slowly weave his way to the bathroom.  
  
Since his back was to her, Sara felt free to ogle his firm backside, but then she blinked in astonishment. The half-healed welts and cuts she had noticed on his back the night before had vanished. Only scars were now visible. Either the Witchblade had healed his back or, as Gabriel had hinted, Nottingham was an extremely fast healer. Shaking her head, she stripped the bed, glad to discover that a waterproof mattress pad had been beneath the bottom sheet. She found another one in the linen closet and put it on along with a fresh set of sheets and pillowcases. Then, remembering what Joey had said about the grad student who'd been renting the apartment, she looked through the wardrobe across from the bed. Apparently, the guy preferred boxer shorts because that was the only underwear she could find. She chose a pair and knocked on the bathroom door before opening it and thrusting her arm inside.  
  
"Here's some clean underwear," she said.  
  
"Thank you," Ian said, taking them from her. "I will be out shortly." 'If I can find the strength to move again,' he thought wearily, distressed by how weak and exhausted he still felt. He looked at the underwear. 'Boxers. It figures.' Even half awake, he'd been hard put not to stare at the expanse of bare skin Sara's own boxer shorts exposed. Her long, slender legs were muscular but shapely, and her feet were surprisingly dainty. Apparently, she'd felt no such compunction about staring: he'd felt her gaze on him as he unsteadily made his way to the bathroom.  
  
It took him several minutes to don the shorts one-handed and when he came out of the bathroom, he was relieved to find the bedroom empty again. He wobbled over to the bed and sat down on it, managing to pull the cotton thermal blanket around himself with some difficulty before leaning back against the corduroy reading pillow and lifting his legs onto the bed, covering them and his lower body with the sheet. Sara had thoughtfully placed a towel over the reading pillow, which had gotten soaked with perspiration the night before. Ian smelled toast, butter, scrambled eggs, and peppermint tea. His stomach growled loudly, and he realized that, for the first time in days, he was famished.  
  
Sara came into the bedroom moments later carrying a tray. "I made some scrambled eggs and toast and a fresh pot of peppermint tea. Think you could eat something?" she asked him.  
  
"Yes, I think I could," he said.  
  
Setting the tray down, she carefully climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside him. She handed him a plate with three pieces of buttered toast and a steaming heap of scrambled eggs on it, which he balanced on his lap. They munched their breakfast in companionable silence, Sara obligingly handing him his mug of tea from time to time. Halfway through his third piece of toast, Ian felt his eyelids start to grow heavy and was unable to stifle a yawn.  
  
"I think I will take a nap," he said, handing his plate to her. "Thank you for making breakfast, Sara."  
  
"You're welcome, although I should probably warn you that this is about as good as it gets. I can't cook to save my life," she told him, putting their mugs and her own plate back onto the tray before scooting off the bed with it. "I nearly always burn the scrambled eggs. You were in luck today."  
  
"I know how to make omelets. Cook taught me when I was a boy," Ian murmured, yawning again. "Perhaps I will make us omelets for breakfast tomorrow."  
  
"That would be a neat trick with just one hand," Sara said, but he didn't respond, having fallen asleep again.  
  
'A nap is a really good idea,' she thought as she did the dishes. Going back into the bedroom, she covered Ian with one of the down comforters and repositioned the pillow behind his tousled head so he wouldn't develop a crick in his neck. Other than heaving a small sigh, he didn't stir at her touch. Sara picked up the other down comforter with the intention of taking it out to the living room and making up the futon, but then decided she was just too tired to go through all that trouble. Shrugging, she crawled back onto the bed next to Nottingham, covered herself, and fell asleep listening to the comforting sound of his deep, steady breathing.  
  
Her bladder's insistent signals brought her out of a dreamless sleep some time later. She started to sit up but then froze, simultaneously becoming aware of two things: that she was spooning with someone and that that someone was Ian Nottingham. He lay on his right side, as did she, his big, warm body touching hers from her calves to her shoulders, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and they had slept this way a thousand times before. Her head was resting on his right arm, and she was appalled to notice that a small pool of her saliva had gathered on his enormous bicep. Sara also realized that he had somehow managed to take off his sling and that his left arm was draped over her body, his muscular forearm right beneath her breasts. Color flooded her face as she also discovered that his hand had worked its way beneath her T-shirt, and was now cupping her right breast. Lifting her head and craning her neck, she looked at Nottingham's face, which was inches from her own, and was immediately struck by how young he looked when he was asleep. But then, unable to ignore her painfully full bladder any longer, she slowly and carefully grasped his left wrist and started to lift his arm. She froze as he stirred, murmuring something, and then bit back a gasp as his fingers flexed, brushing her breast. Glancing back at his face, she blinked as she met sleepy hazel eyes.  
  
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, and she could feel the vibration of his words against her back.  
  
"Uh, good morning," she said, and then cleared her throat. "I, uh, have to get up, so, um, could you, uh, move your arm?" She tapped his wrist, then bit her lip when this made his fingers brush her breast again.  
  
Now it was his turn to blink. "Move my arm?" She saw his gaze travel downward. His eyes widened and she was fascinated to see color redden his cheeks. He snatched his hand from beneath her shirt as if it had been burned, and then flinched, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder. Hastily, Sara put several inches between their bodies, and then sat up and glanced over at the bedside clock. 'That can't be right,' she thought. It said 8:30 a.m., and it had been 10:30 a.m. when she fell asleep. 'The power must have gone out or something,' she decided. But the clock wasn't blinking "12:00," which would have been a clear indication of a power outage, meaning she and Nottingham had slept for nearly 24 hours. 'No wonder I have to pee so badly,' she thought. 'He probably has to go, too!' she realized.  
  
"I'll only be a minute," she mumbled, scrambling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.  
  
When she came out, Ian was standing at the window staring out at the snow. She felt a stab of disappointment as she saw that he'd draped one of the cotton blankets around his shoulders, hiding his magnificent body from view.  
  
"There must more than two feet on the ground," he said without looking around.  
  
"And it's still coming down," she observed.  
  
He glanced at her before looking outside again. "Yes, but not very heavily. I think it will stop soon."  
  
"You do realize we slept for almost a whole day, right?"  
  
"Yes. We must have needed it. I know I did." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "If you will excuse me, my Lady," he murmured, and then stepped around her and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.  
  
'He really is shy,' Sara thought with some amusement. 'He can hardly bring himself to look at me, and I'm not even what you'd call scantily clad.' She decided to take pity on him. Going into the living room, she got out her toiletries and a change of clothes, deciding that she would take a much-needed shower and then get dressed.  
  
"I'm gonna take a shower, but I'll keep it brief so there's some hot water left for you," she told him when he came out of the bathroom a moment later. She took a bath towel and a washcloth from the linen closet.  
  
"I would also like to take a shower, but I do not have any clean clothing or toiletries with me," Ian said, eyes downcast.  
  
"Ah, lucky for you, the guy who was renting this place is about your size. As long as we launder whatever you wear, I'm sure he wouldn't mind you borrowing some of his clothes." She nodded toward the wardrobe opposite the bed. "Everything you'll need is in there. And he left some shampoo and stuff in the bathroom, too. Or you could use my shampoo and bath gel if you don't mind smelling kinda girly," she told him.  
  
One of his brief, almost-smiles made an appearance. "Thank you for the kind offer, my Lady," he murmured, bowing his head and glancing up at her through his lashes.  
  
Sara started to enter the bathroom but paused. "I'm curious: Did you think those boxers I gave you were mine?" she asked him.  
  
Again, his gaze briefly flicked in her direction. "I really had not given much thought as to where they came from," he lied.  
  
"Huh. For the record, I wouldn't be caught dead in those," she said, eyeing what she could see of them. They were white satin covered with big, bright red hearts. She shrugged. "I just grabbed the first pair I found in the wardrobe," she lied, barely able to keep from smirking. "Well, I'll be out in ten minutes."  
  
"Take your time, my Lady. I will make us breakfast while you are showering," he told her, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him and his ridiculous, borrowed shorts. "It should be done by the time you are finished."  
  
"Omelets?" Suddenly, an image of Ian standing at the stove in nothing but those silly boxer shorts popped into her mind's eye, and she could not refrain from grinning.  
  
"My specialty," he nodded, eyeing her askance.  
  
"Yum. I'm starving! See you in a bit," she said and actually started to giggle before she could retreat into the bathroom.  
  
The sneaking suspicion that her amusement was at his expense made Ian stare thoughtfully at the closed bathroom door for a long moment before he crossed to the wardrobe and began looking through it for a robe and a less eye-catching pair of underwear.  
More to come. As always, thanks to all of you for your wonderful feedback. Please, keep it coming! Anyone care to take bets on how long Sara can resist jumping Ian's bones? Stay tuned! 


	42. Chapter 43

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Just playing around. Enjoy!  
Author's Note: I was saddened to hear about Yancy Butler's recent arrest. Apparently, she is still battling her demons. Here's to hoping this beautiful and talented actress can overcome her personal problems and that we'll see her back on the big (or small) screen soon.  
Chapter 43.  
A delicious scent permeated the apartment when Sara came out of the bathroom 20 minutes later. Her stomach growled audibly and she actually started salivating.  
  
'Hmmm. From the smell of it, Nottingham can cook,' she ruminated. 'If it weren't for the fact that he kills people for a living and has a megalomaniacal, murderous control freak for a father, he'd be quite the catch.'  
  
Toweling her hair dry, she sauntered barefoot into the living room. Her mouth quirked as she saw that Ian was indeed standing at the stove; however, to her chagrin, he had donned a black kimono-style robe and a pair of loose, navy blue drawstring pants.  
  
"That smells heavenly," she told him, taking a seat on one of the bar stools in front of the island countertop/breakfast bar. "I don't know about you, but I'm ravenous."  
  
"I am very hungry, too," Ian admitted. "Paula Siri was thoughtful enough to provide all of the ingredients for a western omelet. She obviously knows you very well for she also included a package of freshly ground coffee." He turned and held up a mug. "Black, no sugar, right?"  
  
Sara's eyes widened. "Give it here!" She practically snatched the mug from him and, despite the fact that the liquid was piping hot, immediately took a sip. The coffee was brewed to perfection. "Ahhh, sweet nectar of life," she sighed, eyes closing with pleasure.  
  
Ian was unable to refrain from smiling at her blissful expression. "I figured you would be craving a cup, having gone without for so long."  
  
"I was seriously suffering from withdrawal," Sara admitted. "Thanks for scratching my java itch, Ian." She opened her eyes in time to catch his smile and felt her pulse speed up. 'Damn, but he has a sexy smile!' she thought, taking another sip of the strong, dark coffee. She eyed his long, lean body hungrily. 'Coffee isn't the only thing I've gone without for too long!'  
  
"Breakfast is served," he said, sliding half of an enormous, golden brown omelet onto a plate, and setting it down in front of her. "Orange juice?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Sara muttered, diving into the food.  
  
Shaking his head, Ian poured two glasses of OJ. He set one down next to her plate and then placed his own glass and plate onto a placemat on the countertop before coming around it to take a seat on the other barstool.  
  
"Omigod, this is delicious," Sara said around a mouthful of omelet, which was stuffed with pieces of ham, onions, green peppers, and melted American cheese. Just then, four slices of toast popped up in the toaster. "Stay put, I'll get 'em," she said when Nottingham started to rise. After buttering the slices, she put the toast on another plate and set it on the countertop, snagging a piece for herself.  
  
"I am glad you are enjoying your omelet, my Lady," Ian said, watching her wolf down the food with astounding rapidity in between gulps of coffee. As usual, he took his time eating, slowly sipping his mug of Earl Grey tea and savoring the rich flavor. He'd been taught that it was unseemly to rush through a meal no matter how hungry you were.  
  
Sara finished her half of the omelet in record time and surreptitiously eyed Nottingham's plate. 'Hold on there, Miss Piggy,' she reprimanded herself. 'He's getting over a serious illness and needs to build his strength back up. No mooching allowed!'  
  
"Sara, would you like the rest of this? I find that I am full," Ian offered, indicating the small piece remaining on his plate.  
  
"Well, if you insist," she said, holding out her plate. It was devoured in two bites.  
  
"There are enough ingredients for another omelet, if you would like more," he said as she polished off a third piece of toast.  
  
"No thanks. I'm full," Sara said, covering her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to muffle a belch. "Oh! Excuse me!" she exclaimed, coloring with embarrassment.  
  
The phone rang, startling them both. Sara jumped off her barstool and crossed to where it was anchored to the wall of the kitchenette. "Hello?"  
  
"Good morning, Sara," Robert Siri said. "How's it going over there?"  
  
"Hey, good morning, Robbie," Sara smiled. "We're doing fine. Ian is feeling a lot better. In fact, we just had a delicious breakfast. Tell Paula thanks for the groceries for me."  
  
"You can tell her yourself. She wants to talk to you," her brother told her. "Hold on."  
  
"Morning, Sara," her sister-in-law said.  
  
"Good morning, Paula. Thanks for sending over those groceries. That was really thoughtful of you."  
  
"You're quite welcome. I figured the weather would make it really difficult to get to and from the main house for a couple of days, so . . . This is some blizzard, hunh? There's more than 30 inches on the ground in parts of the five boroughs and out on the island!"  
  
"Yeah, but it looks like it's winding down. I think I see sunlight peeking through the clouds," Sara said, peering outside.  
  
"I think you're right. How is Ian feeling?"  
  
"Much better. His fever broke just after midnight Thursday night, and he's getting his strength back." Sara covered the receiver with her hand as she saw Nottingham start to gather up the dishes. "Leave them," she told him. "I'll clean up. Why don't you jump into the shower?"  
  
"Very well," he murmured and disappeared into the bedroom.  
  
"That's good news. Joey said he's pretty banged up. How'd he get hurt again?"  
  
"He fell off a roof," Sara said truthfully. "He's still hurting, of course, but I've been giving him pain medication, and he's up and about." She frowned as she realized that Nottingham hadn't put his sling back on, nor had he seemed hampered by his injured shoulder whatsoever while making their breakfast -- or while inadvertently groping her earlier, for that matter. Her face grew hot as she recalled the intimacy of their positions upon awakening, and she was glad Ian had left the room.  
  
"Well, I wanted to invite both of you over for dinner tonight. Do you think he's feeling up to it?"  
  
"I'll ask him. Both of us slept all day yesterday, so we're feeling pretty rested," Sara told her. "At least I know I am."  
  
"Sara," Paula paused and then lowered her voice, "feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but, I, um, came across some, uh, contraceptives when I was cleaning up the apartment. They're in the night table drawer if, um, you know, you need protection."  
  
Sara felt her face grow redder even though nobody was there to see it. "Um, good to know," she murmured. "However, given that Ian's still pretty sore, I don't think that sort of, uh, activity is on the agenda. But thanks for looking out for me, Mom."  
  
Paula laughed. "Well, better safe than sorry, I always say. Even banged up, Mr. Nottingham is quite the temptation, if I do say so myself. If I were in your position, I'm not sure I could resist."  
  
"I can hear you, you know," Sara heard Robert say in the background.  
  
"Oops, busted! Dinner's at 6:00. Joey wants to say hi," Paula said, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl. "See you later, Sara."  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara," her nephew greeted her a moment later.  
  
"Hey, kiddo. Did you enjoy your snow day yesterday?" she asked him.  
  
"Yeah. I love snowstorms, except Dad is gonna make me help him shovel the path in a little while," he groused. "So, Ian's better, hunh?"  
  
"Yeah, thank God."  
  
"I knew he'd be all right. I don't suppose you guys would be up for a snowball fight later this afternoon?"  
  
"Uh, are you a glutton for punishment, Joey? You know nobody builds a snow fort faster than me and that my aim is deadly," Sara reminded him. "But if you insist on getting creamed, I'm ready, willing, and able to do the job."  
  
"You're on. I guess it wouldn't be fair to attack Ian, seeing as he only has one good arm at the moment."  
  
"Yeah, he's also just getting over a bad case of the flu, so getting cold and wet probably isn't such a good idea," she told her nephew. 'Too bad,' Sara thought. 'For some reason, the idea of pelting the crap out of Nottingham with snowballs is very appealing to me, if only to see how he'd react.'  
  
"However," she told Joey, "a teensy little ambush on our way over to dinner tonight isn't out of the question. We'll probably leave here at around 5:00. Can I count on you?"  
  
Joey chuckled. "Yeah. I'll set aside some ammunition after our fight."  
  
"Excellent. Looks likes it's the perfect kind of snow for snowballs, too," Sara said, grinning. "Not too wet and not too fluffy."  
  
"It is. I already checked it out. So, I'll see you in the backyard. Three o'clock. Be there -- if you dare."  
  
"Oh, I'll be there," Sara promised. She heard Joey sigh dramatically.  
  
"The Brat wants to speak to you," he said and then lowered his voice to a loud whisper. "Whatever you do, don't invite her to join our snowball fight. If one little speck of snow accidentally gets her in the face, she freaks out and starts crying. Bye, Aunt Sara!" he said.  
  
"I am too gonna join you. It's my backyard, too!" Sara heard Gina Marie yell at her brother. "Hi, Aunt Sara."  
  
"Hi, Cutie Pie. What did you do during your snow day yesterday?"  
  
"Mommy and me made a chocolate layer cake. We're gonna bake cookies today after lunch. I'll bring some over for you and Ian after Joey and Daddy shovel the path."  
  
"Well, thanks, Sweetie! I'd love some homemade cookies and I'm sure Ian would, too."  
  
"My Mommy says he's conver--, convalet--, convalescing," the 11-year- old finally got out.  
  
"Yeah, he is. But I'm sure he'd love to see you."  
  
"I'm glad Ian's feeling better. Does he like chocolate chip cookies?"  
  
"Who doesn't?" Sara replied, realizing that she had absolutely no idea if he actually did.  
  
"I'm gonna make a special smiley-face one just for him."  
  
"Wow, that's really sweet of you. I know he'll like that."  
  
"Um, can I share your snow fort with you, Aunt Sara?" Gina Marie asked.  
  
"Hey, no fair!" Sara heard Joey protest in the background. "You gotta build your own fort!"  
  
"Tell him I said yes, you can," Sara told her, smiling.  
  
"Ha! Aunt Sara said I could, so there!" she told her brother triumphantly. "See you later, Aunt Sara," her niece said. "Bye!"  
  
"Bye, Sweetie." Sara hung up. She poured herself another cup of coffee and drank it while she did the dishes, all the while mentally planning her strategy for the coming battle.  
  
****  
  
Ian closed the bedroom door behind him, half listening to Sara as she spoke to her sister-in-law. He shrugged out of the black cotton kimono he'd found in the wardrobe, wincing as his shoulder twinged. For appearance's sake, he knew he should probably don the sling again once he got out of the shower, although he didn't really need it any longer. However, it would not do for Sara to find out about his amazing recuperative powers; Ian was very afraid that she would look at him like he was some kind of freak if she did. With a normal human being, a broken bone could take as long as six to eight weeks to heal, depending on the severity of the fracture. Ian's bones started knitting almost immediately, and within two weeks, even complex fractures had completely healed, provided they'd been set properly. His collarbone, shoulder muscles, and ribs were still very sore, but not nearly as painful as they had been. So long as he didn't overdo it and make any sudden moves, the discomfort was nothing more than a minor annoyance. Going into the bathroom, Ian opened the medicine cabinet and took out a small pair of scissors, which he used to cut the tape binding his ribs. Unwinding the ace bandages, he briefly examined the spectacular but already fading bruises on the left side of his rib cage in the mirror. Doffing his borrowed pants, he cut the bandage off his right thigh. Although pink and tender, the bullet wound had already scarred over and wouldn't even require a new bandage. Ian turned on the water in the shower, making it as hot as he could stand it, and got beneath the spray. It felt heavenly to wash away the sweat, grime, and aches of the past couple of days. Opening his eyes, he spied Sara's shampoo and shower gel in the shower caddy. Picking up the shampoo, he opened it and inhaled the familiar vanilla scent, remembering how he had awakened during the night, disoriented and chilled, having managed to kick his blankets off. That was when he had become aware of the warm body beside him in the bed. Sara lay on her left side, facing him, her right arm inches from his, and he saw that the down comforter covering her had slid down to below her waist. Her long, dark hair fanned out over her pillow, and ignoring the protest of his ribs, Ian had leaned over and picked up a gleaming chestnut lock, reverently touching it to his lips before letting the soft, silky strands slip through his fingers. Shivering, he'd gotten up, and smoothed the bedcovers before climbing back onto the bed. Tossing the corduroy reading pillow aside, he stretched out flat on his back next to Sara, pulling the down comforter on top of her up over the both of them, ostensibly so they could share warmth. Shortly thereafter, the sling supporting his left arm had begun to annoy him, and sitting up, he had quickly removed it, flinging it onto the floor, before lying down again.  
  
"Shhh, Ian, s'okay," Sara had mumbled, and he'd stiffened when she flung her right arm across his chest, petting him soothingly before curling up against his side. He had lain there, afraid to breathe in case she awakened and moved away from him, intensely aware of her closeness, as well as the hand and arm on his chest. On her wrist, the Witchblade's red stone pulsed sluggishly in time with her deep, steady breaths. He watched her sleep for a long time, hardly able to believe that the woman he loved and desired slept so peacefully beside him. The next thing he knew, he awoke to find Sara's blushing face only inches from his own.  
  
"Good morning, my Lady," he'd murmured, pleased to find that for the first time in weeks, he felt well rested. His sleep-fogged brain barely had time to register the fact that her slender but curvaceous body was touching his from his sternum to his shins before she pointed out that his left arm was preventing her from getting up. That was when he'd discovered that not only was his arm draped familiarly over her, but that his left hand had somehow found its way beneath her nightshirt. Abruptly, it dawned on him just what his fingers were brushing. Mortified, he'd snatched his hand away from her, causing his shoulder to loudly protest the sudden movement. Disappointment warred with relief within him when she immediately put several inches between their bodies and sat up. Flushing bright red, he had waited for her to upbraid him for his presumptuousness, but, to his surprise, she had merely gotten up and gone to the bathroom. When she came out a minute later, Ian had recovered his composure. But he'd been very aware of her as she stood next to him looking out the window at the impressive snowfall. Self-consciously, he tried to remember what he had said to her in his borderline delirious state the night before, but could only vaguely recall those nightmarish hours of suffering and confusion.  
  
As he stood beneath the shower, the fleeting memory of the feel of her body against his and of the satiny soft skin his fingers had accidentally touched teased him, but he ruthlessly quashed these thoughts when he felt his body start to become aroused. A brief blast of icy water helped cool his ardor. Squeezing a small amount of Sara's shampoo into his palm, Ian washed his hair. He settled for using the shower gel the garage apartment's previous tenant had left behind, although he could not resist smelling Sara's lavender-scented product. By the time he was dressed, his shoulder and ribs were achy enough for him to want some more painkillers. Picking up the sling from the bedroom floor, he went back out into the living room.  
  
Sara was gathering up her hastily discarded clothing from the other night, when Ian came out of the bedroom. She glanced up at him, and then did a double take.  
  
"Wow," Sara breathed, "you look so . . . so normal," she told him. 'And good enough to eat, too!' She blinked at the salaciousness of the thought, glancing suspiciously down at the Witchblade, but the deceptively innocuous-looking bracelet's blood-red stone was dark.  
  
Ian was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a forest green long- sleeved flannel shirt. His dark hair was slicked back, falling in damp waves to just past his broad shoulders, around which a towel was slung. His shirt was open, revealing the navy blue T-shirt he wore beneath it.  
  
Ian raised a dark eyebrow. "Did I appear abnormal before?" he inquired, toweling his wet hair one-handed.  
  
"You know what I mean," she said, retreating into the bedroom to put her dirty clothes in the hamper in the bathroom. "I've never seen you in anything but solid black or navy blue before. Except for those boxers you were wearing earlier, that is," Sara told him when she came back out into the living room, keeping her face straight with an effort.  
  
Nottingham crossed to where the first-aid kit sat open on a side table next to the futon and took out a bottle of Advil, opening it and shaking a couple of pills into his hand. "Ah, yes, those boxers," he murmured, going into the kitchenette. "If I remember correctly, you said they were the first pair you came across."  
  
She shrugged nonchalantly. "That's right."  
  
"Oddly enough, I discovered numerous, considerably less garish pairs in the top drawer of the wardrobe, whereas the bottom drawer contained several pairs of the same ostentatious ilk as the ones you gave me," he commented, pouring himself a glass of water.  
  
"Is that so?" Sara murmured, contriving to look innocent.  
  
"Indeed," he said, after washing the painkillers down with a sip of water, hazel eyes contemplating her speculatively.  
  
"You must be pretty sore," she said, quickly changing the subject. "Which reminds me, Vicky said I should change the bandage on your thigh today. And what about your ribs? Shouldn't they be re-taped?"  
  
Ian lowered his eyes. "I can do it myself," he mumbled. "However, I would like you to help me put this back on." He held out the sling to her.  
  
"Okay, but I don't see how you can bandage your thigh or tape your ribs yourself one-handed," she said skeptically.  
  
"I will manage." He was glad when she didn't pursue the topic.  
  
"Paula and Robbie invited us over for dinner this evening. Are you up for it?" Sara asked him as she adjusted the straps. He smelled wonderfully fresh and clean, and the way the borrowed jeans rode low on his narrow hips, exposing the waistband of the white boxers he wore underneath them, made it very hard for her to think straight.  
  
"That is very nice of them. I would be delighted," Ian said biting back a groan as her arms went around him. Her distinctive scent went straight to his head, lighting the fire of his desire for her, and he had fight the urge to grab her and kiss her. Luckily, the jeans he wore were fairly loose or else she would have immediately become aware of his burgeoning arousal.  
  
"Oh, and Gina Marie is probably gonna drop by after lunch. I hope you like chocolate chip cookies, because she and her mom are baking a batch and she wants to bring some over."  
  
"They are my favorite dessert," Ian replied truthfully. He had only had them a few times, back when he'd been in the Special Forces. One of his fellow Black Dragons had regularly received care packages from home containing the delicious, homemade treats, and he'd been kind enough to occasionally share them with his fellow brothers in arms. Kenneth Irons had frowned upon sweets, expressly forbidding the cook to serve sugary confections of any kind at the estate while Ian was growing up. His master had become more lenient in this regard once Ian had reached adulthood, but his tastes ran more toward sweetmeats, fresh fruit tarts, gateaux, and Italian pastries, none of which particularly appealed to Ian. It had been years since Nottingham had had chocolate chip cookies, but he clearly remembered how much he'd enjoyed them.  
  
"There, you're all set," Sara said, stepping back. "Wanna watch a movie?"  
  
"All right," Ian said. "Just let me tend to my wound and my ribs first." He took a roll of tape, a bottle of disinfectant, and some gauze pads out of the first-aid kit.  
  
"Sure. I don't know what kind of selection this guy has, but, hopefully, I'll have a few to choose from by the time you get back," she said, going over to the rack that held an assortment of CDs, DVDs, and videotapes. A compact stereo sat on a shelf above the 27-inch TV. "Oooo, he's got Surround Sound!" Sara discovered. "With any luck, there's a movie with lots of explosions and special effects in this collection!"  
  
When he came out of the bathroom several minutes later, Ian took a seat on the futon. He had unnecessarily bandaged his thigh because he realized she might glimpse it later, but hadn't bothered to re-tape his ribs. As long as he kept his T-shirt on, she would be none the wiser.  
  
"Okay," Sara announced, "we've got a couple of Nic Cage goodies: 'Con Air' and 'The Rock,' both of which are action packed. We also have two Will Smith flicks: 'Independence Day' and 'Men in Black,' which are also high on the action quotient. Oh, and lookee here! The 'Star Wars' trilogy! Thank God this kid has good taste. He also has some other Harrison Ford gems, including 'Raiders of the Lost Ark,' 'The Fugitive,' 'Blade Runner,' and 'Patriot Games.' And if you like Tom Cruise, he's got 'Mission Impossible,' both I and II, 'Jerry Maguire,' 'A Few Good Men,' and 'Top Gun.' What sounds good to you, Nottingham?" she asked him.  
  
"You choose, Sara," Ian said, unwilling to admit that he hadn't seen any of the films.  
  
"Okay, well, I vote for . . ." Her words trailed off as she spied another videotape in the rack and pulled it out. "Wow! I haven't seen this in years. It's one of my favorites, too. 'On the Waterfront,' starring Marlon Brando in his hunky prime. Let's watch that, okay? We can do explosions and special effects later."  
  
"As you wish, my Lady," he murmured deferentially.  
  
Sara popped the tape into the VCR, but stopped it. "I'm just gonna get a coffee refill, a glass of seltzer, and some munchies. Can I get you something to drink?" she asked Ian, heading toward the kitchenette.  
  
"My glass of water is fine, thank you."  
  
Sara had spied some microwavable popcorn in the cupboard above the sink when she was putting away the groceries the other night. She took out a packet and put it in the microwave. Two minutes later, the scent of hot popcorn filled the air. Taking the bag out, she opened it and dumped the contents into a bowl, placing it and the drinks on a tray, which she set on the coffee table.  
  
"Have you seen this movie before, Ian?" she asked him as she took a seat on the futon, curling her legs up under her.  
  
"No," he said, pleased by how close she was sitting to him. "However, I did see Marlon Brando in 'Apocalypse Now' while I was in the Special Forces. Every week, we had movie night, but we were shown mostly older films rather than new releases," Ian told her.  
  
"Oh, yeah? What else did you see?"  
  
"'From Here to Eternity,' 'Bridge on the River Kwai,' 'The Deer Hunter,' 'The Great Escape,' 'The Guns of Navarone,' 'The Green Berets,' among others."  
  
"Hmmm. I'm detecting a theme," Sara murmured. "Well, this flick will definitely be a change of pace." She pressed play on the remote, grabbed the bowl of popcorn, and settled back to enjoy the movie.  
  
Ian quickly became engrossed in the film. He was vaguely aware of Sara observing his reactions from time to time. At first, he politely declined her offer of popcorn, but after a while, whenever she passed the bowl to him he automatically grabbed some and absently munched it. He was fascinated by the movie's dramatic themes of brotherly love, honor, and betrayal. When former prizefighter Terry Malloy broke down the door to Edie Doyle's apartment and grabbed her in a passionate embrace, he glanced at Sara out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. Her color high, she stared raptly at the screen, one hand pressed to her chest, with a little smile on her lips. He wondered what she would do if he leaned over and kissed her at that moment. Her small, bare feet were only inches from his right hand.  
  
When the movie ended, Sara heaved a sigh. "Wasn't that great?"  
  
"I enjoyed it very much. Marlon Brando is an extremely gifted actor," Ian said.  
  
"And easy on the eyes, too," she grinned. She glanced at the clock on the wall in the kitchenette. It was 11:15. "Should we watch another one before lunch?"  
  
"If you wish."  
  
"I wish. How about 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'? Oh, better yet, 'Star Wars'! Yeah, that's what I'm in the mood for. Are you okay with that?"  
  
"Yes." While growing up, Ian had read and heard a lot about this groundbreaking science-fiction/fantasy film, and he was looking forward to finally seeing it.  
  
"Gotta have more popcorn and some soda this time, I think. You?"  
  
"Water will be fine for me, Sara." Ian's sharp hearing picked up a sound outside, and rising he looked out the window. He saw that it had stopped snowing, and that Robert and Joseph Siri had begun the arduous task of shoveling a path to the garage.  
  
"What's going on out there?" Sara asked from the kitchen.  
  
"Your brother and nephew have begun shoveling a path to us."  
  
"Ah, I should probably offer to help, but 'Star Wars' awaits!" Sara grinned, plopping down on the futon, popcorn in hand.  
  
Ian was soon transported from the garage apartment to a galaxy far, far away. He became so involved in the movie that he didn't hear the knock at the door an hour later. It wasn't until Sara pressed stop on the remote and jumped up from the futon that he realized they had a visitor.  
  
"Hi, Aunt Sara!" Gina Marie Siri chirped, stomping her booted feet on the newly uncovered mat in front of the door. She carried a cookie tin in her mittened hands.  
  
"Hey, Cutie Pie!" Sara said, giving the girl a big hug. "Come on in!"  
  
"Hi, Ian," Gina Marie said, smiling shyly as she spotted him on the sofa. "I brought cookies for you and Aunt Sara."  
  
"Hello, Gina Marie. That was very thoughtful of you. Chocolate chip cookies are my favorite dessert," Ian told her, rising.  
  
"There's a special one on top that I made just for you," the girl told him, opening the cookie tin before handing it to him.  
  
Holding the tin in his left hand, Ian peeled back the tin foil to reveal a large cookie with a smiley face made out of chocolate chips. He grinned delightedly. "Thank you, my Lady. I will eat him first." The cookies were still warm, and their scent made his stomach growl loudly.  
  
"Speaking of eating, it's lunch time. I'll make us some sandwiches," Sara said. "Did you eat already, Sweetie?"  
  
"Yeah. We had sandwiches, too, and soup and crackers. What movie were you watching?" she asked, unzipping her pink, puffy down jacket.  
  
"Star Wars," Ian told her, setting the cookie tin on the island countertop. "May the Force be with you, Princess," he intoned.  
  
"Maybe the Force be with you, too, young Jedi," Gina Marie said, grinning. "What part are you up to? Have the rebels attacked the Death Star yet? That's my favorite part." She replaced the lid on the cookie tin.  
  
"Not yet. Obi-Wan Kenobi is attempting to shut off the Death Star's force field while Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, and Chewbacca try to rescue Princess Leia," Ian said, taking a seat on the futon again.  
  
"Oh, goody! Can I stay and watch the rest of it with you guys, Aunt Sara?" the girl asked.  
  
"Sure, Sweetie. Ian do you want ham and Swiss or turkey and Swiss?"  
  
"I will have turkey and Swiss, thank you."  
  
"Lettuce and tomato?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
"Mustard and mayo?"  
  
"Just mustard, please."  
  
"You got it."  
  
"So, is your arm hurt?" Gina Marie asked Ian, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of one of the barstools.  
  
"I dislocated my shoulder and broke my collarbone," Ian told her, catching the sharp look Sara threw him, only then remembering that he had never mentioned his fractured clavicle to her.  
  
"I broke my wrist when I was six. I fell off the monkey bars at the playground. I had a pink cast that all of my friends signed," the girl informed him. "Does your shoulder hurt a lot?"  
  
"Not too badly. The pain medication I took helps."  
  
"Mommy also said you're getting over the flu. I had the flu last year. My fever was 103. I'm glad you're getting better."  
  
"I am, too. It is no fun being sick."  
  
"It sure isn't. We're gonna have a snowball fight later this afternoon in the backyard. Aunt Sara said I could share her snow fort with her. We're gonna cream Joey!"  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yeah. Too bad you can't join us. But you can watch from the window. It's a lot of fun unless you get hit in the face. I don't like it when that happens. Make Joey promise not to aim at our faces, okay, Aunt Sara?"  
  
"Okay, baby."  
  
Five minutes later, Sara placed a plate with the sandwiches on it on the coffee table, along with a bowl of potato chips.  
  
"Do you want a glass of Coca-Cola, Gina Marie?" Sara asked her niece, who was looking through the CDs in the rack.  
  
"Yes, thank you." She plopped down on the futon next to Ian. "Princess Leia is very beautiful, isn't she?"  
  
"Yes, she is. She is very brave, too."  
  
"Yeah, she's tough yet girly, like my Aunt Sara."  
  
"Who you callin' girly?" Sara said, pretending to be mad. She set down a glass of soda on the coffee table and then began to tickle her niece mercilessly.  
  
Gina Marie giggled helplessly and tried to squirm away. "I take it back! I take it back!" she cried. "Make her stop, Ian!"  
  
"Cease and desist your sadistic torture at once, Darth Lady!" Ian said sternly. "She will never reveal the location of the rebel base!"  
  
"Oh, all right," Sara said grudgingly. She sat down on the other side of the panting girl and picked up half a sandwich. "Dig in."  
  
"Gladly," Ian murmured, taking up a napkin and a sandwich half.  
  
Sara pressed play, and for the next hour the three of them sat there and watched the rest of the movie in companionable silence, except for the occasional comment or interjection.  
More to come. Thanks, as always for your fantastic feedback, which is soooo inspiring! Keep it coming, please! 


	43. Chapter 44

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
Chapter 44.  
Ian glanced at the clock on the wall in the kitchenette as the movie's credits started to roll. It was 14:00 hours. He felt restless and keyed up, perhaps as a result of the jolt of adrenaline he'd received from the space opera's breathtakingly climatic battle. Or maybe it was the sugar rush from the half dozen or so chocolate chip cookies he'd consumed.  
  
Gina Marie had gotten up during the last half hour of 'Star Wars' and brought the cookie tin over. Ian had eaten his smiley-face cookie with relish, washing it down with the glass of milk the young girl had also poured for him. Then he'd devoured several more of the delicious treats in rapid succession, while riveted by the Rebel Alliance's desperate race against time to destroy the Death Star. After sleeping for nearly an entire day, followed by four hours of sitting on the futon watching movies, he was nearly bursting with pent-up energy. Plus, it had been some time since he'd had a real workout -- notwithstanding the fight for his life on that warehouse rooftop two nights ago. Wistfully, he listened as Sara and her niece planned their strategy for the coming fight, wishing he could join in the fun. However, Sara believed he was still too weak and hurting too badly for that kind of exertion. Ian did not want to run the risk of her discovering just how quickly he healed by insisting he was well enough to participate in the snowball fight. So, with a sigh, he resigned himself to staying cooped up in the apartment and watching from afar as she and her niece waged battle with her nephew.  
  
"Why the big sigh?" Sara asked him, green eyes searching his downcast features.  
  
"I wish I could join you," Ian said truthfully.  
  
"It's a little soon for you to playing in the snow, don't you think? Besides, it'd be kinda hard to make snowballs with one hand," Sara pointed out.  
  
"I could make them for him," Gina Marie offered. "Me and him could share a fort while you and Joey make your own forts. It's not even that cold out. Ten minutes in the snow couldn't hurt him, could it?"  
  
Sara shook her head. "I don't know, Sweetie. He's just getting over a bad case of the flu. I don't want him to overdo it. He could have a relapse or reinjure his shoulder and ribs."  
  
Ian heaved another sigh, and Sara winced when she saw that the pitiful kicked-puppy had shown up. 'Oh, no, not the puppy!' she thought desperately.  
  
"All right, all right!" she gave in, against her better judgment. "You've got ten minutes outdoors. But you have to promise me that as soon as you start to feel tired or if your shoulder and ribs start bothering you, you'll go back inside."  
  
"I promise," Nottingham said swiftly, grinning. Despite his sling, he actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation, causing Sara to raise her eyebrows at him.  
  
"Can we get a head start building our snow fort?" Gina Marie asked.  
  
"Hmmm," Sara tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I guess that'll be okay. Joey's not gonna like it though."  
  
"Too bad. I've got little hands and Ian only has one, so it's only fair that we get to dig our fort first. Aunt Sara, you have to go in the bedroom so you can't overhear us discussing our strategy," Gina Marie told her.  
  
"Hey!" Sara protested. "I won't eavesdrop. I'm not a cheater!"  
  
"I think that is an excellent idea, Gina Marie," Ian told the 11-year- old. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sara. "Your aunt is taking the coming battle very seriously, and we must decide upon a plan of action very carefully if we want to avoid defeat."  
  
"Et tu, Nottingham?" Sara asked, contriving to look hurt. "Fine, I'll go." She got to her feet, snagging a couple of cookies from the tin before going into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.  
  
Gina Marie jumped up and went over to the CD rack. "We better put on some music in case she has her ear to the door," she told him.  
  
"I heard that!" Sara said.  
  
"Good thinking, my Lady," Ian said, grinning. He got up and joined the girl by the stereo, glancing through the extensive collection of CDs, which were stacked alphabetically. "Oh, Led Zeppelin!" he exclaimed, spotting a familiar name. "I like them."  
  
"Okay, let's put that one on. It's a five-disc changer, so I'll chose one, too," the girl said. "I like this CD, 'Supernatural,' by Santana." Using the stereo's remote, she turned on the power, then put the CDs in the changer and pushed play. Ian adjusted the volume to a level that he felt would cover their conversation and that was comfortable for his sensitive ears. He was a little surprised by how much he was looking forward to the coming contest.  
  
"Okay," Gina Marie Siri said, all business. "Here's what we're up against: Joey likes to fight dirty, Aunt Sara's aim is deadly and she really hates to lose, and I'm too little to throw very far and my aim is terrible."  
  
"Although there is nothing I can do about the first two things, I am pleased to say that I have excellent range and aim. You make the snowballs, and I will hit the targets," Ian told her.  
  
"Deal. Now we just have to decide where to build our snow fort. Knowing Joey, we will only have a few minutes head start, so we have to figure out the best location and then declare dibs on it," she said.  
  
"I believe I can also be of help in that matter, but I would like to examine the lay of the land first and figure out the direction of the wind. It would not do to be blinded by the sun or the blowing snow that young Joseph 'accidentally' kicks up."  
  
Gina Marie grinned up at him. "Too bad you're only gonna be allowed to fight for ten minutes, Ian. With your help, I might actually have a chance to beat Joey for once!"  
  
"Can I come out now?" Sara called from the bedroom.  
  
"Yeah," her niece said. "I know you like my Aunt Sara and all, but you have to promise not to go easy on her," the girl whispered to Ian as her aunt came out.  
  
"I promise," he said, expression serious.  
  
"Good. I'm going back home to get my sand pail and shovel to build our fort with. Let's meet in the backyard in, say, 30 minutes?" Gina Marie said, taking her coat from the back of the barstool.  
  
"I will be there, my Lady."  
  
"A pail and shovel!?! That's not fair!" Sara protested, helping her into her coat.  
  
The girl held up her hands. "Tiny hands, remember?" but she could not refrain from grinning impishly. "See you outside, Ian." She left.  
  
Sara regarded an entirely too smug-looking Ian Nottingham. "You are in for a rude awakening, my friend. Nobody builds a snow fort faster or better than me, and my aim is legendary for its accuracy."  
  
"We shall see, my Lady," he said, his lips turning up at the corners in that provocative almost-smile of his.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You gotta promise not to use any of your superpowers, Nottingham," she stunned him by saying. "It's only fair since I don't get to use the Witchblade."  
  
"I am not sure what you mean, Sara," he murmured faintly, hazel eyes wide.  
  
"You forget that I witnessed how fast you can move. I also know you don't really need that sling anymore, but you probably should leave it on or Joey won't show you any mercy," she rendered him speechless with. "However, I am serious about you only staying out there for ten minutes. It's kind of soon to be exerting yourself, even for you. I don't want you to overdo it."  
  
"How did you find out about my healing ability?" Ian asked her quietly when he found his voice. "Did Gabriel tell you?"  
  
She shook her head, grabbing another cookie from the tin on the coffee table. "Although he hinted about it by warning me not to be surprised by how quickly you got back on your feet, I realized the real deal when I noticed that the cuts and welts on your back had disappeared overnight. Or scarred over, to be exact," she told him.  
  
Nottingham's gaze dropped to the floor. "I am sorry you had to see that," he muttered, wondering how he had failed to notice her reaction to the discovery of his master's cruelty. Then again, he had been pretty out of it.  
  
"Irons did that to you, didn't he?" It wasn't really a question.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Sara gazed at him in silence for several long, uncomfortable moments, and then she did something completely unexpected. She went to him, slid her arms around him, and simply held him, her cheek pressed against his chest.  
  
At first, Ian stiffened, his breath catching, but then, just as he had whenever he felt her touch during the height of his fever, he relaxed, his right arm going around her and gathering her even closer to him. Mentally, he cursed the sling on his left arm, which prevented him from getting as close to her as he so badly wanted to.  
  
They stood there in the middle of the living room like that for quite some time.  
  
"You better go put your boots on," Sara said finally, pulling away from him, leaving him feeling bereft. She turned and bent to pick up the glasses and plates from the coffee table, but not before he saw the moisture on her cheeks. "And don't forget to put on your gloves, hat, and scarf before you go outside."  
  
"Yes, my Lady," he said, brushing his own tears away before going into the bedroom.  
  
****  
  
As Gina Marie had surmised, her brother gave them only a five-minute head start building their fort before he and Sara began constructing their own.  
  
"No, don't stop!" Gina Marie reprimanded Ian when he paused to gawk at the amazing rapidity with which Sara was building her fort. "As soon as she's done she'll start making ammunition!"  
  
"Oh my God, Sara's way ahead of everybody!" Ian heard Paula Siri say, and he and Gina Marie turned to see her parents standing on the back deck of the house. They, too, were bundled up against the cold.  
  
"Well, then there's no time to waste," Robert said grimly, jumping off the deck into the snow, which came up to above his knees.  
  
"Wait a sec! You're joining the fight, too?" Joey said, digging furiously.  
  
"Yeah, but we're sharing a fort. Got a problem with that?" Robert responded, choosing a spot and beginning to excavate it with his wife's help.  
  
"I guess not. Darn! Aunt Sara's already making ammo!"  
  
"You all are toast!" Sara cackled maniacally.  
  
"You can't start throwing snowballs until we're done, Sara!" Paula cried. "That's no fair!"  
  
"Hey, I didn't make the rules!" Sara defended, her pile of snowballs growing with frightening speed. "Rule is as soon as your fort is done, you get to start making ammo. And when you think you have enough ammo, you get to start throwing snowballs."  
  
"We're almost done, Ian, just a few more -- Oh!" Gina Marie flinched as a snowball whizzed past, just missing her.  
  
"Heh, heh, heh! Suckers!" Joey chortled, quickly firing another toward his sister and Ian.  
  
"Incoming!" Gina Marie screamed ducking down. She handed the pail to Ian. "Just put a few more bucketfuls on top and we're done!"  
  
"I think you should begin making ammunition, my Lady," Ian murmured, hunkering down just in time to avoid getting hit. "Our fort will just have to do as it is."  
  
"You're right," she conceded, and began making snowballs as fast as she could.  
  
"Oh, you rotten scoundrel!" Paula yelled as Sara began zinging snowballs at her and Robert mercilessly, most of which found their mark. "Stop laughing and keep building, Robbie!"  
  
"Not my fault you guys were late to the party!" Sara panted. "Your butts are mi-- Oof!" she grunted as a snowball hit her squarely in the chest. Stunned, she glanced to her left just in time to see the smirk on Nottingham's face before he nimbly ducked a fusillade from Joey.  
  
"Oooo, a direct hit on Aunt Sara!" Joey crowed. "Good one, Ian!"  
  
Sara's face grew stormy. "You're mine, Nottingham," she growled.  
  
"Promises, promises!" he taunted, firing another enormous snowball at her, which missed by millimeters.  
  
Gina Marie giggled delightedly. "Get Joey," she whispered to him.  
  
"I will try," he murmured, peering over the edge of their fort in an effort to locate their target. He waited until the boy reared up to throw at his hapless parents and then let go a blazing barrage of snowballs.  
  
"Agghhh! I'm hit!" Joey cried. "Whose idea was it to let Ian join in again?"  
  
"Aunt Sara's!" Gina Marie laughed. She high-fived Ian gleefully, but then her eyes widened. "Look out!"  
  
Ian turned just in time to get a direct hit in the face.  
  
Gina Marie gasped in horror. "Oh, no! Not in the face!"  
  
"Oops!" Sara said with patently false sincerity. "My bad." Unnoticed, she had stealthily crept closer to their fort, abandoning her own. She was less than five feet away from them.  
  
Ian stared at her, clumps of snow dripping down his face. "I thought we were not supposed to aim at faces," he said, very softly.  
  
She shrugged. "It was an accident," she said, but then smirked.  
  
"My Lady, it was unwise of you to break cover," Nottingham commented darkly.  
  
Sara's eyes widened as he reached into his sling and removed a large snowball. Turning, she desperately tried to retreat to her fort, but to no avail. The snowball hit her squarely in the back of the head before she could get halfway there, and she shrieked as icy wetness found its way beneath her collar and down her back.  
  
"Get her!" Robert shouted, and suddenly she was being bombarded with snowballs from all directions. By the time she reached the protection of her fort, she was covered with snow from head to toe.  
  
"Time out, time out!" she yelled.  
  
"Oh, yeah, now that she's getting creamed, she wants to call time out!" Joey snorted, continuing to lob snowballs at her.  
  
"No! Really! It's been ten minutes! Ian has to go back inside!" Sara panted.  
  
"Awww, no way!" Gina Marie protested. "You're only saying that because his aim is better than yours and he's hit you, like, a dozen times!"  
  
"More like two dozen," Ian murmured, earning a glare from Sara. "But who is counting?"  
  
"So, time is called, right?" Sara huffed, sitting up.  
  
"No!" her niece yelled, throwing a snowball at her and actually hitting her in the head. Another missile from Joey narrowly missed her.  
  
"Hey!" their aunt cried. "Give me a break here!"  
  
"It is all right, Gina Marie," Ian said, rising. "Time is called everybody."  
  
Grudgingly, Joey, Paula, and Robert stopped firing at the cowering Wielder. Sara waited a few moments before cautiously raising her head above the lip of her fort, whereupon she immediately got a face full of snow.  
  
Joey shouted with laughter. "Psych!" he cackled. "You got her back good, Ian!"  
  
Sara blinked away snow to see Ian standing only a few feet away, grinning down at her.  
  
"You are dead meat, Nottingham!" she snarled, and launched herself at him, tackling him around the knees. He fell back into the deep, soft snow, laughing helplessly. Grabbing two enormous handfuls of snow, Sara straddled his hips, but then she froze, staring at him, green eyes wide with wonderment.  
  
Ian flung his right arm up protectively in anticipation of getting a face full of snow, but when nothing happened he peered up at Sara over his sleeve. "What is it?" he asked, noticing her stunned expression.  
  
"You," she whispered. "You were laughing."  
  
He blinked. "Yes, I was," he agreed. He sat up so that their faces were inches apart, his gloved right hand coming up to cup the back of her cold, wet neck. "Thank you, my Lady, for the precious gift of laughter," Ian said, and kissed her. The snow fell, forgotten, from Sara's gloved hands.  
  
It started out as a chaste, gentle gesture of gratitude, his warm lips pressing lightly against hers, but after a moment of rigid surprise, Sara's lips softened, parting slightly in plain invitation for him to deepen the kiss, which he did eagerly. Ian made a small sound in the back of his throat as the tip of her tongue darted into his mouth and touched his. Abruptly, all of his pent-up desire was clearly communicated to her through his lips, and she responded to it instinctively and wholeheartedly, tilting her head and opening her mouth wider, her arms coming up to steal around his neck. His tongue explored the contours of her mouth, and Sara gave a little moan as it found an extremely sensitive area and lingered there, probing delicately. She reciprocated by thrusting her tongue into his mouth and discovering a corresponding spot, and now it was he who moaned softly.  
  
The sound of somebody clearing their throat abruptly brought them both back to reality, and they broke apart, flushing self-consciously.  
  
"Uh, I think you are right, Sara," Ian muttered. "I am feeling a little chilled as well as fatigued. I should probably go inside."  
  
"And I'm soaking wet," Sara said, hastily getting off of him. 'In more ways than one!' she thought. 'Hot damn, that was some kiss!' "I'd better go with. Um, see you guys in a couple of hours at dinner," she told her family. She held out a hand and helped Ian to his feet. Together, they started toward the garage, trying to make it seem as though they weren't hurrying.  
  
"Uh, okay, see you guys later," Paula and Robbie said almost in unison, exchanging knowing glances.  
  
"Yeah, after they make out like crazy," Gina Marie observed, smirking.  
  
Joey chuckled. "You got that right, Sis!"  
  
"Gina Marie!" Paula gasped, staring at her husband in appalled disbelief.  
  
"Don't look at me! I don't know where she got those ideas from," Robbie said, unable to suppress a grin.  
  
"Oh, come on," their daughter said, rolling her eyes. "It's not like I don't know about that stuff. I'm 11, not seven." Gina Marie turned and started trudging toward the deck. When she reached it, she grabbed a pile of snow off the railing, turned, and flung it at her brother, who was a few feet behind her, hitting him smack in the face. "Ha! I win!" she cried, opening the sliding door and dashing into the house before he could retaliate.  
  
"Yeah, uh-hunh. I want a rematch tomorrow!" Joey called after her, wiping the snow off and grinning. "We'll see who wins then!" He disappeared inside.  
  
"I'm pretty sure Ian won today," Paula murmured, glancing toward the garage.  
  
"Yeah," her husband agreed. "But you could definitely say he got lucky!"  
  
"Oh, you're bad, Robert Siri," his wife chuckled, shaking her head at his pun.  
  
"Not as bad as I can be," he purred in her ear, sliding his arm around her waist.  
  
"What time is it? About 3:30, right? Hmmm. That means we don't have to start getting dinner ready for at least another hour," Paula said speculatively. An impish gleam appeared in her brown eyes. "Race you to the bedroom!" She darted into the house. "Last one there has to give the winner a foot massage!"  
  
"You're on!" Robert grinned, right behind her.  
More to come! There. Happy, now? The first kiss is out of the way. Thanks, as always, for all of your feedback. It is so fun to read and your enthusiasm is really heartwarming. Keep it coming! 


	44. Chapter 45

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them! Enjoy!  
  
Author's note: FAIR WARNING: This chapter contains pretty racy content, folks! So, if you're offended by this sort of stuff, DO NOT READ ON. There, I warned you, so PLEASE don't report me to ff.net!!! Also, I owe a debt of gratitude to Slally, whose wonderful (and, I'm very happy to say, equally long) fan fiction piece, "Breathing Space," which is posted over on the Digitablum Magae board, inspired the erotic flights of fancy in this chapter. In fact, I may have inadvertently stolen a turn of phrase or two. Thanks, Slally! Of course, I also let my own fertile imagination run wild about having a buck naked Ian Nottingham at my mercy! Yee-ha!!!  
  
Chapter 45.  
  
Kenneth Irons walked into the estate's infirmary, the tapping of his silver-handled cane preceding him and alerting the man lying in the hospital bed as to the identity of his visitor.  
  
Dr. Immo sighed, putting aside the latest issue of The New England Journal of Medicine that he'd been perusing and schooling his features into the eager-to-please expression he knew his employer was used to seeing.  
  
"Ah, good afternoon, Dr. Immo!" Kenneth Irons greeted him with false joviality. "You're looking much better today."  
  
"I am feeling much better, thank you, Mr. Irons," Immo murmured. He eyed the silver-haired billionaire critically, easily recognizing the signs of strain and sleeplessness from long acquaintance with the man. "I understand the surgeon was able to save the vision in the helicopter pilot's eye."  
  
"Yes. He'll fly again, although with the settlement he got from me, he no longer actually needs to work for a living," Kenneth murmured, lowering himself into the chair by the bed. He picked up the Journal, glanced at it, and put it back down. "Doctor, I read your notes on the toxin you administered to Ian. Tell me, is there any chance he could have survived without the benefit of the antidote?"  
  
Immo contrived to look thoughtful but hesitant. "There is always a chance, albeit slim, that, yes, he could have survived. His genetic enhancements make anything possible."  
  
"I see. Then perhaps we should hold off on activating one of his 'brothers' until we know for certain," Irons said, hope filling his heart at the doctor's words. "Unfortunately, this storm will prevent the retrieval team I assembled from locating him for the next few days at the very least."  
  
"Is it still snowing?" Dr. Immo asked.  
  
"No. It stopped this morning. However, there is in excess of two feet on the ground. The roads are impassable, and likely will be for some time."  
  
"What of the Wielder?" Immo was emboldened to inquire. "Have you sensed anything from her through your link to the Witchblade?"  
  
Kenneth shook his head. "Nothing since late Thursday night, when It gave her a vision," he murmured. He frowned as he remembered how he'd gone to the library after the failed attempt to locate Ian that fateful night. He'd been furious at being thwarted as well as more upset than he cared to admit by the prospect of Nottingham's impending death. So, as he often did during times of stress, he had sought solace in the company of his beloved Elizabeth Bronte in her icy crypt. Recalling the brief power outage, he'd drawn back the curtains covering the glass-enclosed chamber with some trepidation, and had been relieved to find that she was fine. Kenneth had been glad of his privacy when, unaccountably, a sudden wave of sorrow had flooded him, bringing tears to his eyes as he gazed upon the love of his life's frozen visage. That was when his link to the current Wielder had alerted him to the fact that the Witchblade was giving her a vision. Several minutes later, just as he sensed the vision start to release Sara, he'd been badly startled to feel a ghostly touch on his tear-streaked face, and he could have sworn that he heard Elizabeth's husky voice whisper in his ear "You lose, my love." Heart racing, he'd glanced wildly around the library, but it had been empty save for himself and the carefully preserved body of the previous Wielder of the Witchblade.  
  
"Forgive me for saying so, sir," Dr. Immo said gently, "but you look tired."  
  
"I do not mind admitting that I am feeling the weight of my years, Doctor," Irons murmured, glancing down at his elegant, immaculately manicured hands. 'And I miss my son,' he thought to himself.  
  
"You miss young Nottingham, don't you?" Immo said softly, startling Kenneth with his astuteness. "I do, too. However, we will know soon enough whether or not he has survived. If he did, we . . . " the doctor's words trailed off as he noticed the way his employer had begun to squirm in his seat, his color rising. "What is wrong? Are you all right?" he asked, alarmed at the sudden change in the man's heretofore calm demeanor.  
  
"It, it's the Wielder," Kenneth panted, pulling frantically at the collar of his dress shirt. "She . . . Oh, dear God!" He fanned at himself with his hands in a futile attempt to cool his suddenly overheated body.  
  
"What is it? Is she under attack?" Dr. Immo questioned.  
  
"Suffice it to say, Doctor," Irons gasped, trembling with the force of the sensations he was all-too-clearly sensing through his link with Sara Pezzini, "Ian Nottingham is very much alive!"  
  
****  
  
As soon as the door to the garage apartment closed behind them, Sara turned and attacked Ian. Reaching up, she swept his hat from his head, grabbed two handfuls of his long, curly dark hair, and dragged his face down to hers, her lips seeking his hungrily and her body pressing his against the door.  
  
When they came up for air minutes later, Ian murmured "Sara, please allow me to take off this sling. It is in the way."  
  
Reluctantly, she stepped back, releasing him. "Don't stop at the sling, mister," she ordered, shrugging out of her down jacket and peeling off her gloves. Tossing them aside, she bent and unlaced her boots, kicking them off and then hopping in place as she removed her socks. Pulling her hat from her head and unwinding her scarf from around her throat, she backed up toward the bedroom. "Come here, big guy," she purred, crooking a finger at him.  
  
Doffing the sling, his scarf, gloves, and overcoat, Ian closed the space between them in an eye-blink, scooping Sara up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Kissing her, he strode over to the bed and sat down on it, gingerly settling her on his lap. When Sara broke off the kiss several minutes later, they were both breathing hard.  
  
She plucked at his flannel shirt. "This, off," she demanded, reaching down to grab the hem of her own sweater, pulling it up over her head in one motion and flinging it to the floor, where it was soon joined by the long-sleeved thermal cotton shirt she'd had on underneath it.  
  
Ian's pulse rate sped up as this revealed the only other garment she wore on top: a sheer black bra. He swiftly shrugged out of his shirt and, with her help, pulled his T-shirt over his head, barely noticing the slight twinge of discomfort his shoulder made. Sara's warm hands immediately traced the muscular contours of his bare chest, her fingers delving into the light furring of dark hair covering it. He groaned as her thumbs lightly brushed his flat male nipples, then gasped as she pressed her mouth to first one then the other, her hot, pink tongue circling the highly sensitive flesh.  
  
"Hmmm, is that your light saber, young Jedi, or are you just happy to see me?" Sara grinned, shifting her curvaceous rump on his lap so that it rubbed against the hard ridge of his erection, eliciting a hiss of pleasure/pain from him. He didn't know whether to be relieved or upset when she scrambled off him moments later and stood up.  
  
"Pants, off," she commanded imperiously, unbuttoning and then unzipping her own soaking wet jeans. Ian enjoyed watching her shimmy out of them as he removed his boots, socks, and, standing, his damp jeans. A wave of shyness flooded him as he stood before her wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, but then the sight of Sara clad only in her bra and panties distracted him, and he forgot to be self-conscious.  
  
She was exquisite, her slender, athletic body very toned but with curves in all the right places. Ian could not quite bring himself to believe that she was really here and that she truly desired him. He was very afraid that if he attempted to touch her again, this would all turn out to have been a cruel dream, and that he would awaken hard and aching for her, like before.  
  
Sara feasted her eyes on Ian Nottingham's amazing physique. His was the body of a warrior, battle trained and honed, with hair-trigger reflexes and a breathtaking array of muscles, as well as a sobering collection of scars. But his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped build was long and lean rather than muscle-bound and stocky, and he moved with a cat-like, masculine grace that was mesmerizing. Her gaze was drawn to the left side of his ribcage, where extensive, colorful bruising stood out against his pale skin, and she was reminded once again of how close she'd come to losing him.  
  
Simultaneously, they reached for each other, driven by an ancient, instinctual urge to mate both were powerless to resist.  
  
Ian was six-foot-three to Sara's five-foot-seven, but this was in no way a deterrent to either of them. Standing on her tiptoes, she offered her mouth to him again, and he bent his head to deliver a long, drugging kiss. Her arms twined around his neck, and his slid around her slim body, gathering her closer to him -- so close there could be no mistaking his desire for her.  
  
"Unhook me," she whispered against his lips minutes later, and Ian groaned as she caught his bottom lip between small white teeth and bit it gently. It took his oxygen-deprived brain a few moments to realize that she meant her bra, and he was pleased that he only fumbled with the tiny hooks and eyes for about 20 seconds before undoing them. Sara created a hair's breadth of space between their heated bodies and shrugged out of the wispy garment, letting it drop to the floor.  
  
Ian gazed down in awe at the pale globes pressed against him. Lifting a trembling hand, he lightly grazed their tops with his knuckles, clearly perceiving the shudder that went through Sara's body at this tentative caress. Encouraged by her swift response, he backed up and sat down on the bed, pulling her toward him so that she stood between his widespread thighs. Raising his hands, he gently cupped her breasts, testing their weight and marveling at the satiny softness of her skin and the way she so perfectly filled his palms. Sara moaned deep in her throat, throwing her head back, as his thumbs brushed her nipples, much as she'd done to his minutes before. She leaned forward, offering a puckered tip to his mouth, and he immediately obliged her, laving first one dusky pink aureole and then the other with his tongue.  
  
"God, Ian," Sara breathed, threading her fingers through his long, dark, incredibly soft hair. Dazed with desire, thick-lashed hazel eyes gazed up at her as his clever mouth lavished attention on her breasts. She gave a little cry as his teeth grazed her right nipple, and suddenly her legs grew too weak for her to remain standing any longer. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pushed him flat on the bed, following him down onto it, so that she lay on top of him. For a fleeting moment, a shadow darkened his beautiful eyes, and she abruptly became aware that her full weight was resting on his battered body.  
  
"What is it?" she asked worriedly. "Am I hurting you?"  
  
He immediately shook his head. "No. It is just . . ." he hesitated, lowering his gaze. "I am afraid that I will disappoint you because of my inexperience, Sara," he finally whispered, coloring.  
  
"Your inexperience?" Sara repeated, then froze as realization dawned on her. "Ian, you're a virgin!?!"  
  
He nodded miserably, unable to meet her eyes.  
  
She stared at him in stunned disbelief, then shook her head ruefully. "Huh. Well, I sure as hell never saw that coming," she murmured, sliding off him to lay beside him on her back and stare up at the ceiling contemplatively. But when he would have sat up, she placed a restraining hand on his chest. "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
"I will understand if you do not wish to continue, Sara," he said stiffly, still avoiding her gaze.  
  
"Whatever gave you that idea?"  
  
He did meet her eyes then, a glimmer of hope plainly visible in his. "You still want me, uh, you still want to continue?"  
  
"Yes," she said softly, moving her head so that their lips just touched, "and yes."  
  
The kiss that followed soon had their pulses racing again. Sara's left hand caressed his chest, and she smiled against his lips to feel the frantic pounding of his heart beneath her palm. Ian's breath caught in his throat as her hand began to stray south, sliding over the chiseled contours of his abs as it followed the narrow line of dark hair that arrowed downward to disappear beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts. Her slender fingers slid under the elastic, but then paused, and her green, green eyes met his.  
  
"Don't be afraid to tell me if I'm going too fast for you," she told him, wondering how on earth he'd managed to remain a virgin until now. His male beauty literally took her breath away.  
  
Unable to form words, Ian merely nodded, guileless hazel eyes wide.  
  
Sara's fingers delved into the curly nest of black hair below his navel, and a fractured groan escaped his lips as they brushed his straining erection, but she reached below it to heft the velvety sack nestled beneath it, gently massaging the twin spheres housed therein. Involuntarily, Ian's hips rose off the bed, and Sara quickly yanked his shorts down. His arousal sprang free, and her eyes widened as she glimpsed it for the first time.  
  
"Wow!" she breathed.  
  
"What?" Ian asked anxiously. "Does it bother you that I am uncircumcised?"  
  
She shook her head, pulling his underwear the rest of the way down and discarding them. "No, it's just that you're, um, quite a bit larger than I imagined you'd be."  
  
He blinked. "You imagined how large I would be?"  
  
Sara colored, and now it was she who avoided his eyes. "I meant you're bigger than I expected," she muttered.  
  
Ian shook his head. "You said 'imagined.' I heard you." An insufferably smug look appeared on his face. "You imagined how I would look naked, Sara," he grinned, immensely pleased by this revelation. "You may as well admit it."  
  
"I imagine how every guy looks naked, so don't get too full of yourself there, buster," she told him, her blush deepening.  
  
He raised dark brows at her, hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. "Every guy? Even Dante?"  
  
Sara made a horrified face. "All right, all right, maybe not every guy. Just those with hot bodies."  
  
Ian's grin widened. "So, you think my body is hot?"  
  
"Okay, you can stop fishing for compliments now, Nottingham! Geez!" she huffed, rolling her eyes, but then a wicked grin appeared on her face. "Besides, it appears that you've forgotten the matter at hand," she murmured, and lightly skimmed the underside of his enormous erection with her nails. "How's that for a reminder?"  
  
"You may proceed!" he gasped, hips rising off the bed again.  
  
Sara watched his face as her fingertips lightly traced the network of distended veins wreathing his sex, her own arousal growing just from witnessing the intense pleasure her touch was giving him. She jumped, startled, when she felt his big, callous-roughened hand splay against her flat belly, her breath catching as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her hi-cut briefs.  
  
"Turnabout is fair play, my Lady," he breathed. "Besides, I need a break from your sweet touch or I fear I will explode."  
  
"We definitely don't want that," Sara murmured, reluctantly releasing him. "At least not yet."  
  
She moaned as his thumb unerringly found the swollen nubbin among the dark-chestnut curls at the juncture of her thighs, and he began massaging it.  
  
"Oh, dear Lord!" Sara gasped after a few minutes. "Are you sure you've never done this before, Nottingham?"  
  
"Only in my dreams, my love," Ian smiled, pressing his warm palm against her, "only in my dreams."  
  
Sara could not prevent her hips from rising off the bed and rocking against his hand, and he took this opportunity to pull her panties down around her slender thighs. She did the rest, kicking them off onto the floor.  
  
"I think it's time for a raincoat," she panted, sitting up. "I want you inside me. Now."  
  
"A raincoat?" Ian questioned, still caressing her.  
  
Leaning over, she opened the night table's drawer and fumbled around inside it for a few moments before pulling out a row of foil-wrapped packets. "Otherwise known as a condom," she said, tearing one off and handing it to him.  
  
"Oh." Ian blushed, handing it back to her. "Would you mind doing the honors, my Lady?"  
  
"It would be my pleasure," she said, opening the packet. "I think Mr. Hoody will look quite fetching in his outerwear."  
  
"Mr. Hoody?"  
  
"Yeah, your foreskin makes it look like he's wearing a little hooded sweatshirt," she explained, laughing at his bemused expression. "Your woody is wearing a hoody! Let's just see if he's ready for his close-up."  
  
She flicked the ultra-sensitive area below the bulbous crown, causing a deep-chested groan to escape Ian's lips. His sex jerked, and several clear drops of liquid appeared at the tip. "I'd say that's a yes," Sara grinned. With agonizing slowness, she smoothed the latex over his aching length. "There. When the time comes -- no pun intended -- feel free to fire away with both barrels, cowboy," she murmured, leaning down to kiss him.  
  
Ian thrust his tongue into her mouth rhythmically, unconsciously pantomiming the movements he was about to commence. When they were finally forced to come up for air, Sara sat up and scooted further onto the bed, holding out her arms to him invitingly. "Come to me, my ninja lover," she said huskily.  
  
He did, pushing her flat and then moving over her, his hot, extremely hard arousal brushing the inside of her thigh. "Guide me, Sara," he whispered, and then groaned, shuddering, when her fingers encircled him.  
  
"Easy, take it easy," she cautioned him as she placed him at the entrance to her body. "It's been a while for me and you're bigger than I'm used to."  
  
"I will try," he murmured, watching her face as he slowly entered her.  
  
She smiled up at him reassuringly. "Feels good."  
  
"Incredible," he agreed, voice rough with the strain of going slow when his body was screaming at him to pound away for all he was worth. None of the visions he'd had of previous Protectors making love to their Wielders or the countless sexual fantasies he'd had about Sara and himself could have prepared him for the exquisite sensation of her moist heat enveloping his throbbing length. He grimaced as felt his body clench, and for one awful moment, Ian thought he'd climaxed, but, to his profound relief, he realized he'd only released more of the pre-ejaculate that was meant to ease his way. Even had he not been covered in latex, it would not have been necessary; Sara was more than ready for him, her sheath slick and inviting. When he was seated within her as deeply as possible, he slowly withdrew completely before easing back into her again. He did this three more times, gasping as on the last achingly slow thrust she changed the angle of her pelvis, so that he penetrated even deeper. Ian was unable to stop himself from grinding his hips against hers, face twisting as his body briefly clenched once again, helpfully releasing yet more lubricant.  
  
Sara's breath caught as Ian ground his hips against her, realizing that it would not take much to put her over the edge; she had gone without for far too long. However, she sensed that he was considerably further along the road to rapture than she was, and being that he was totally new to the experience, she decided that, in all fairness, she could not expect much from him in the way of staying power.  
  
"I'll understand if you lap me this time around, Ian," Sara told him, reaching up to caress his tense but determined face.  
  
He shook his head. "You first, my Lady," he murmured. "Always, you first."  
  
"You won't get an argument from me," she grinned, already addicted to the way he filled her more fully than any of her previous lovers had. "Faster," Sara whispered hotly in his ear. "Ride 'em, cowboy!"  
  
"Thank God!" he breathed, eliciting a chuckle from her. He quickly settled into a smooth thrusting rhythm, with Sara occasionally redirecting the angle of his entry using subtle adjustments of her pelvis and hips. Her hands caressed the bunching and sliding muscles of his back, reveling in his strength and virility. She was extremely pleased, albeit unsurprised, at what a quick study Ian Nottingham was.  
  
Within minutes, sweat was pouring off both of them and Sara began twisting restlessly beneath him, the coil of tension at her center winding tighter. Abruptly, his rhythm faltered, and she saw him grimace, his jaw clenching. He rested his full weight on her, burying his face in her neck, his big body twitching with unreleased tension against hers.  
  
Thinking he was struggling for control, she panted "Ian, feel free to come at any time. Honest. I'll understand."  
  
"I am merely taking a breather," he said, voice muffled, unwilling to admit that his injured shoulder had begun to stridently protest his exertions. In fact, the urge to climax had actually taken a backseat to the rapidly growing discomfort in the joint.  
  
"Is that so?" Sara said, and although she badly wanted him to make good on his earlier promise, she decided to test his resolve by tightening internal muscles around his sex, which was buried to the hilt inside her.  
  
Ian grunted, hips flexing against hers. "Are you trying to make me a liar, Sara?" he gasped. "Keep it up, and you will."  
  
"You keep it up!" she grinned, challengingly, caressing him internally again.  
  
He gave vent to a low moan as the clamoring ache in his testicles clawed at him mercilessly. "You do not play fair, my Lady, but I will do my best," he said through gritted teeth, and levering himself up off of her, he started moving again. But after only a few strokes, his left arm suddenly collapsed beneath his weight, and Ian cried out as a sharp, burning pain shot through his shoulder. He rolled to one side of her, breaking their union.  
  
Thinking he'd come, Sara tried to curb her disappointment, but then she realized that the expression on his face was one of pain not pleasure, and she noticed the way he was grabbing his left shoulder.  
  
"Oh God, Ian! Your poor shoulder," she murmured, stroking sweat- soaked ringlets away from his contorted features. "I'm sorry. I really should have offered to be the one on top from the get-go."  
  
It was several minutes before Ian was able to respond, during which time his breathing eased and his pounding heart slowed. "It is not too late, my Lady," he said when he could speak again, eyes slitting open. "I await your pleasure."  
  
"But, Ian, you're in pain!" Sara protested. "We should wait until your shoulder is better before going all out again. In the meantime, allow me to take the edge off for you."  
  
He immediately shook his head. "No, Sara. I want to come inside you after I give you your release," he insisted stubbornly, although truth be told, his shoulder felt like it was on fire.  
  
"Okay, but I'll understand if you reach the finish line first. And I'm going to stop if it looks like I'm hurting you!" she warned him. Careful not to put any weight on his ribs or bad left shoulder, she straddled him. Grasping his latex-covered sex, which was still slick with her juices, she slowly impaled herself on him.  
  
Twin sighs of pleasure escaped their lips, and Ian's hands stroked Sara's taut thighs in gratitude. Her muscles flexed beneath his palms as she rose up until only the tip of him was still inside her, before gliding back down. She did this several times, each time taking more of him within her. They groaned in unison as she settled her weight on him briefly, her lushly swollen sex making electric contact with his pelvic bone and her rump mashing his aching testicles before she rose up again. Ever so slowly, her pace began to increase, and Sara cautiously placed her left hand on his uninjured right shoulder for balance as she leaned over him. Tantalizingly, this presented her swaying breasts to him, and he lifted his dark head and sipped one pebble-hard nipple into his mouth, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core. Her pace sped up, and Ian started raising his hips to meet her downstroke. Experimentally, his right hand left her thigh and he reached between their gyrating bodies to caress her.  
  
Sara moaned, grinding herself against him, and Ian gasped as her hot, satiny sheath dealt his rock-hard sex a delicate, fluttering caress. "Ohhh, that felt so, so good, Sara," he moaned, writhing beneath her.  
  
When the delicious tremors subsided, she grinned down at him. "Glad you liked it, but I'm just getting warmed up!" Surprised and pleased by his stamina, she began moving languorously again, loving the sensation of him filling her and feeling only slightly guilty that whereas she'd climaxed once already, he had yet to.  
  
Desperate to bring about his longed-for release, Ian tried to force her to speed up her pace, but she would not be hurried, fending off the hand he attempted to finger her with. Finally, he couldn't stand the sweet torment any longer. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he rolled Sara beneath him, eliciting a breathless laugh from her, then, balancing his weight on his right forearm, he withdrew to nearly his entire length before slamming back into her. He did this again. And again.  
  
Mere minutes ago, this would have hurt Sara because of his size, but now it swiftly drove her over the edge. She let out a shimmering cry of completion as a second, more powerful orgasm gripped her. Her sheath rippled insistently around him, kneading his unyielding hardness, and Ian groaned loudly, grinding his hips against hers. Sara cried out again as this served to strengthen her internal contractions, heightening her pleasure. Ian yelped as he felt his testicles draw up against his body into tight, aching knots, and then his entire body clenched above hers and a red fog ate away at the corners of his vision. A massive shudder gripped him, and he yelled, a wordless shout of mingled triumph and mind-blowing bliss, as, at long last, he came in an explosive, heated rush.  
  
Still caught up in her own ecstasy, Sara dimly heard Ian bellow with pleasure and felt him tremble violently against her. Deep within, she clearly felt the pulsing of his sex, followed by the scalding hot jetting of his semen in her womb -- too clearly.  
  
"Oh, no!" she panted, dismayed, as realization dawned on her.  
  
When his brain was able to coherently form words again and he could draw enough air to speak, Ian gasped "What is wrong?" Using the last of his energy, he moved to one side of Sara, drawing her with him so that their union remained intact.  
  
"I'm pretty sure the condom broke," she whispered. "And I'm also pretty sure I'm ovulating." 'Which explains why I was so hot to trot,' she acknowledged silently. 'That and the fact that I just couldn't keep my hands off that body of his. Lord have mercy!'  
  
Ian was silent for several moments, his passion-glazed hazel eyes staring into her panicky green ones. "Are you sure it broke?" he finally asked.  
  
"There's only one way to find out. Pull out," she told him. "Slowly!"  
  
He did as she requested, carefully holding onto the bottom of the condom. They both held their breath until he finally slipped free of her.  
  
"I knew it!" Sara said, as her fears were confirmed. Sitting up, she turned on the lamp on the night table and peered at the remaining foil packets. "No wonder," she groaned. "The expiration date passed a couple of years ago! Who the hell keeps outdated condoms around?" she yelled, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "Now that I think about it, Paula said the guy is a grad student at Polytechnic U., meaning he's probably a freakin' math nerd who only gets lucky once a decade, although, apparently, he's an eternal optimist because he stays prepared."  
  
"I am sorry this happened, my Lady," Ian said, removing the remnants of the prophylactic, which Sara took from him and tossed in the small garbage pail next to the night table. "However, all may not be lost. Due to the prolonged nature of my extremely high fever, I highly doubt the sperm in my ejaculate were viable. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn that I have been rendered permanently sterile, which has been known to happen to males who suffer from a very high fever for an extended period of time."  
  
Sara stared at him. "Perish the thought that you can't make little Ians, Nottingham," she finally said for lack of anything better to say.  
  
"With you, it would in all likelihood be little Saras; the Witchblade has no use for sons," he murmured.  
  
"I'll just bet It had a hand in this," Sara grumbled, throwing an accusatory look at the ancient sentient weapon on her right wrist. The red stone pulsed happily, and a feeling of satiation and lassitude began to steal through her body. Shrugging, she laid back down. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. We'll just have to wait and see if I dodged your bullets." 'Or if he really is shooting blanks,' she thought, briefly wondering why this possibility disturbed her more than the chance that she might become pregnant did.  
  
Ian regarded her naked, supine form admiringly. "Did I at least satisfy you, my Lady?" he asked quietly.  
  
Startled, Sara glanced up at his anxious face. "You more than satisfied me, Ian. Really. In fact, you did the deed like an old pro!" she reassured him. She opened her arms to him, and he slid close to her, laying his dark, tousled head on her chest.  
  
"I am glad I gave you pleasure, Sara" he whispered. "You gave me pleasure, too. More than I ever dreamed was possible."  
  
"And that was just the tip of the iceberg, lover," she told him, gently stroking his scarred back. "How's your shoulder?"  
  
"Sore. The muscles in the joint are not at all happy about the strenuous activity I subjected them to. But I will live," Ian told her. He yawned hugely. "Would you mind terribly if I napped for a little while, my Lady?" he inquired, raising his head to glance at the clock on the night table. "We still have more than an hour and a half before we are expected to arrive at the main house for dinner."  
  
"Not at all. In fact, I think I'll join you," Sara said, sitting up again. "Just let me set the alarm so we'll have enough time to shower before getting dressed." Suddenly, an image of the two of them making torrid love in the shower popped into her head, and she shivered.  
  
'Stop that!' she mentally admonished the Witchblade, then blinked when she saw that the stone was dark.  
  
"Are you cold, my Lady?" Ian sat up and reached for the covers.  
  
"A little," Sara murmured, setting the clock to wake them in an hour.  
  
When she lay back down, he pulled the top sheet and the down comforter up over them before stretching out beside her so that they lay on their sides, facing each other. "Thank you, Sara," he said, running a hand down the curve of her spine, making her quiver anew.  
  
"For what?" she asked, snuggling closer to him, her finger tracing whorls of still-damp hair on his chest.  
  
"For a day of firsts," he smiled, pressing warm lips against her temple. "Star Wars, the snowball fight, and, most precious and miraculous of all, making love with you."  
  
More to come. Was that steamy enough, or what? Thanks for all of your feedback! Keep it coming, please! 


	45. Chapter 46

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: I inadvertently gave the wrong location of Slally's masterpiece, "Breathing Space." It was formerly on the Digitablum Magae storyboard, but now can be found in its entirety on the Llan an Cailleach storyboard. I strongly recommend you check it out -- unless you have a problem with NC:17-rated content, that is. If that's the case, DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER. Although not as graphic as the previous chapter, more naughtiness awaits! Okay, I warned you, so please don't report me to ff.net! Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 46.  
  
Something woke Sara well before the alarm went off. She lay still, listening to Ian's deep, steady breathing, and realized that they were in the exact same position as they'd awakened in that morning. Her Protector's big, warm body spooned with hers, his left arm, slack with sleep, was draped around her, and his hand was once again cupping her right breast. Sara glanced down as she felt an unfamiliar, drawing sensation at her nipple, and froze in shock. Curled up in the crook of her right arm, a naked, dark-haired infant, perhaps six months of age, nursed contentedly at her breast, its tiny, dimpled fist wrapped securely around Ian's thumb. As Sara gazed in wide-eyed fascination at this small, perfect being, it opened huge, thick-lashed, gold-flecked green eyes and stared up at her with an intensity that was at once unsettling in one so young and hauntingly familiar.  
  
"Are you my daughter?" she whispered. At the sound of her voice, the corners of the baby's mouth curled upward in a miniature version of its father's provocative almost-smile and it kicked its chubby legs excitedly. Sara blinked as this revealed that it was most definitely male. "I guess not," she murmured, smiling back at her son. "You're practically a mini Ian, so I should have known."  
  
"You should have known what?" Ian asked sleepily.  
  
Sara's eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright, causing Ian to wince as his left arm was unceremoniously dislodged from around her.  
  
"I just had a vision," she told him, shoving her hair out of her face. Sara glanced at the Witchblade just in time to see the blood-red stone fade to darkness.  
  
Gingerly flexing his stiff and extremely tender shoulder, Ian also sat up. "What did It show you? It chose not to share the vision with me this time."  
  
"Our child." She placed a trembling hand on her as yet flat stomach. "More importantly, our son."  
  
Ian froze in the process of rubbing the sleep from his eyes and gaped at her. "Our son? How can that be?"  
  
Sara smirked. "Well, my human reproductive biology is little rusty, but if I remember correctly, you got your X chromosomes and then you got your Y chromosomes --"  
  
Nottingham actually rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean," he interrupted her. "Are you sure it was not a dream?"  
  
"It was so real, like the Witchblade's visions always are," she told him. "And the stone was glowing just a moment ago." Her fingers brushed the place on the bed where their infant son had lain, and she imagined she could still feel the warmth left behind by his tiny body.  
  
Ian's gaze searched hers. "How do you feel about this?" he finally asked her quietly.  
  
"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "How do you feel about it?"  
  
He looked thoughtful, his right hand absently scratching his bearded chin. "I have mixed emotions," he said at last. "Although I have never pictured myself as a father, the idea definitely appeals to me."  
  
"Well, I guess this means you aren't sterile," Sara said flippantly, surprised by how calm she felt given the circumstances. "I wonder why the Witchblade allowed me to conceive a son, though. I thought Wielders only gave birth to daughters."  
  
"While it is true that there has been no record of a Wielder bearing a male child for centuries, it is not unheard of," Ian informed her. He hesitated. "Sara, as I am sure you are aware, events in the visions sometimes do not take place for years, if at all. You might not be pregnant. And the child you saw might not be mine," he told her.  
  
Sara shook her head. "Trust me on this, Nottingham. He was yours. It was like looking at a miniature version of you. He even smiled like you do. Plus, you were there in bed with us."  
  
"And the infant was definitely male?"  
  
"Yep. I saw the family jewels. He took after you in that department, too!" she grinned. Her eyes roamed his muscular torso speculatively. "Hmmm. Now that we don't have to worry about birth control, what do you say we fool around some more?"  
  
"I am ready and willing, my Lady," Ian said instantly, deciding he could ignore his painful shoulder as long as he took care not to place any weight on his left arm.  
  
"I notice you left out able," Sara said. "Your poor shoulder must be really stiff and sore. I'd better be the one on top," she purred, reaching beneath the covers to see for herself just how ready he was.  
  
Ian groaned as her fingers encircled his burgeoning erection. "If you insist," he breathed, laying back down.  
  
"I insist," she smiled, leaning down to kiss him. He made a little moaning sound in the back of his throat when her tongue darted into his mouth to spar with his.  
  
Sara loved the fact that he was a vocal lover. 'Very vocal,' she thought, remembering the yell he'd let out upon climaxing. 'I wonder if that was a fluke, seeing as it was his first time. Hmmm, I'll just have to find out.'  
  
Ian ran a hand down Sara's flank, and was rewarded with the sensuous shiver that went through her slender body. It amazed him how quickly she responded to his untutored touch. 'It is like she is tinder and I am flame,' he mused, 'which is only fitting since I burn for her.'  
  
When the alarm clock's buzzer sounded ten minutes later, they both ignored it.  
  
****  
  
"Sorry we're late!" Sara said as she and Ian entered the main house's side entrance at 6:30. They paused in the coatroom to hang up their coats.  
  
Paula Siri was standing in the kitchen at the island countertop, turning a salad spinner. She eyed the two of them, noting Sara's heightened color and Ian's happy, relaxed mien. "Not a problem. We're running a little behind schedule ourselves," Paula told them. 'Probably for the exact same reason,' she thought to herself with a smile.  
  
A mouthwatering scent permeated the house, and Sara realized that she was famished. "Is that London broil I smell?" she asked, sniffing the air appreciatively.  
  
"Yep, and it's almost done," Paula said.  
  
"Good, because we're both starving! Right, Ian?"  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "I feel as though I could eat the proverbial horse!"  
  
Robert Siri walked into the room. "I thought I heard the door. Hey, guys."  
  
"Hey, Robbie," Sara greeted her brother.  
  
"Good evening, Robert," Ian said.  
  
"Can I offer you both something to drink? How about a glass of wine?" he said.  
  
"Um, seltzer's fine for me," Sara said, unconsciously touching her belly.  
  
"A glass of red wine would be nice," Ian said. But at Sara's frown, he swiftly changed it to "Actually, seltzer will be fine for me, too."  
  
"Coming right up. Why don't you come into the living room? Joey and Gina Marie are in there playing checkers. Think you two would be up for some bid whist later?" Robert asked them. "I can set up the card table in here."  
  
"I'm game," Sara said, grinning. But she noticed that Ian looked a bit downcast. "What's wrong?" she asked him.  
  
"I do not know how to play bid whist," he admitted, as they followed their host down a hallway.  
  
"No problem. It's really easy to learn, especially for a brainiac like you," she told him.  
  
"Well, I am a fast learner," Ian said slowly.  
  
"I'll say," Sara grinned, remembering the extremely enjoyable lovemaking sessions they'd had less than an hour ago, first in bed and then in the shower. Ian's eyes met hers, and they shared a not-so-subtle look that said he, too, was recalling their recent activities.  
  
Robert looked from one to the other and then smiled and shook his head. 'Boy,' he thought, 'did the temperature just rise in here or what?'  
  
They entered the living room, where Joey and Gina Marie Siri lay sprawled on a braided rug in front of a roaring fire, a checkerboard between them.  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara. Hey, Ian," Joey said, glancing up at them.  
  
"Hi, Aunt Sara. Hi, Ian," Gina Marie smiled up at the adults. "I'm beating Joey!"  
  
"No way!" Sara said, taking a seat on the sofa. "I thought he was the King of Checkers."  
  
Ian sat down beside her, so close his thigh touched hers. He felt a swell of satisfaction as she reached over and interlaced the fingers of her left hand with those of his right.  
  
Joey shrugged. "Can't win 'em all," he said, doing a double take as he noticed their intertwined fingers. He smiled broadly at the sight.  
  
"I'll be right back with your drinks," his father said, noticing the couple's closeness, too.  
  
But before he could leave, his daughter said "Daddy, can you get me another Coke with three ice cubes, please?" She held out an empty glass to her father. "Thanks."  
  
"Sure, Sweetie. Anything for you, Joey?"  
  
"No, thanks. I still have some soda left," his son said, indicating a half-full glass on the floor next to him. "Some more Cheese Doodles would be nice, though."  
  
"I think you've both had enough snacks. Dinner will be ready in less than half an hour," Robert said, picking up an empty, orange-tinted plastic bowl from the floor. "However, I'll refill this for Ian and Sara."  
  
"What, exactly, are Cheese Doodles?" Ian whispered in Sara's ear.  
  
"Cheesy hors d'oeuvres. You'll love 'em," she whispered back.  
  
"Is ravenous hunger normal after, um, a certain activity?" he asked her softly, thinking that these Cheese Doodles could taste like sawdust and he'd still consume them.  
  
"You mean after wild monkey sex?" Sara murmured, grinning as he blushed and glanced nervously at the oblivious kids.  
  
"Yes," he muttered, appalled to feel his groin tighten in response to her sexy grin.  
  
"'Fraid so. By the way, I advise you to keep your fingers away from the vicinity of my plate or you're liable to lose a couple during the feeding frenzy, or dinner as it's more commonly known."  
  
"Duly noted."  
  
Robert returned carrying a tray with their drinks and the bowl of Cheese Doodles, which he set down on the coffee table in front of them. Ian eyed the bright orange curls dubiously, watching as Sara grabbed a handful, most of which she shoved into her mouth. She crunched away happily, washing them down with seltzer. Prior to taking a seat in the wing chair adjacent to the sofa, her brother grabbed some, too. Robert picked up a glass of red wine from the side table and sipped from it before eating his snack at a much more sedate pace. Leaning forward, Ian took a single Cheese Doodle from the bowl. Sara watched closely as he put it in his mouth.  
  
After a moment, he raised an eyebrow. "Not bad," he said, savoring the cheddar cheese flavor.  
  
"Told you," she grinned, grabbing more. "Allow me," she said, offering him another. He opened his mouth and she popped it in.  
  
"They are pleasingly crispy," he murmured, enjoying the way they crunched as he chewed.  
  
"More?" Sara asked him, her eyes suddenly riveted to his full lips.  
  
"Yes, please." She fed him a couple more.  
  
"Oh, dear, look at that," Sara murmured, "you've got some cheese powder on your mustache and lips. Let me get that for you."  
  
Ian stiffened as she leaned over and delicately began to lick his lips clean. "Sara," he said warningly, feeling himself swiftly becoming aroused.  
  
"Mmmm?"  
  
"I, uh, think you had better stop that," he whispered, unable to suppress a low moan as she ran her tongue along the ultra-sensitive rim of his mouth.  
  
"There," Sara smirked, pulling away. "All done." She stood up. "Wanna take a tour of the house before dinner?"  
  
Ian quickly grabbed a magazine off the coffee table and placed it in his lap. "Uh, not right now. Maybe later," he muttered, coloring. He glanced at Robert, who was shaking his head and unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin behind his wineglass.  
  
Joey looked up from his game. "What'd I miss?" he asked, noticing the wildly differing expressions on the faces of the adults and his father's barely suppressed mirth.  
  
"Just Sara getting all kissy-faced with Ian," Gina Marie answered without taking her eyes off the checkerboard.  
  
"Darn!" Joey swore.  
  
Sara chuckled evilly, sitting back down next to a red-faced Nottingham. She placed a hand on his thigh, and he actually jumped. "Hey, easy there, cowboy," she purred, stroking the corded muscles beneath the denim. "I don't bite." She leaned closer to him again. "At least not in public," she whispered in his ear.  
  
Ian very deliberately picked up her hand and placed it back on her own thigh. "I suggest you keep your hands to yourself, my Lady," he whispered back. "Unless you wish to give your niece and nephew an impromptu lesson in sexual education."  
  
She batted her eyes innocently at him. "Whatever do you mean, Mr. Nottingham?"  
  
"You know what I mean, Ms. Pezzini."  
  
Sara lowered her gaze to the magazine in his lap. "Oh, Time Magazine! What's that on the cover?" she said, reaching for it.  
  
"Get your own magazine!" Ian growled, fending off her hand.  
  
Sara pouted. "Fine. Be that way." She started toying with his hair, which he wore loose, grabbing a curly lock and stroking his cheek with it. "Are you ticklish, Nottingham?" she asked him huskily, a devilish glint in her green eyes, "'cause this is giving me ideas for later."  
  
"Are you enjoying yourself, my Lady?" he inquired, his pulse speeding up.  
  
"Getting there," she grinned, lightly brushing his ear with a curl. She laughed as he shuddered, eyes closing, easily evading him when he tried to blindly bat her hand away.  
  
Gina Marie Siri decided to take pity on poor Ian. "Hey, Aunt Sara, come with me. I wanna show you something in my room!" she said, jumping up.  
  
"Thank God!" Ian said beneath his breath.  
  
"What was that?" Sara asked him as she started to rise.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Are you sure? I could have sworn you said 'Don't go, Sara.'"  
  
"I said nothing of the kind."  
  
"Okay, 'cause I'll stay if you really, really want me to."  
  
"You have my leave to go, my Lady."  
  
"Are you coming, Aunt Sara?" Gina Marie asked impatiently from the hallway.  
  
"Yeah, baby, here I come." Reluctantly, she followed her niece from the room, but not before flashing one last mischievous look at Nottingham.  
  
Ian actually wilted with relief once she was out of sight.  
  
"Want that glass of wine now?" Robert asked, expression sympathetic.  
  
"God, yes!" Ian said emphatically. "But you had better make it quick. There must be no evidence of my imbibing by the time Sara returns."  
  
"Women!" Joey said knowingly from where he still lay on the rug, drawing startled stares from both men. "What?" he asked innocently.  
  
More to come. Okay. That will probably be the last lighthearted chapter for some time. Sadly, reality will soon intrude on the lovers' snowbound idyll. Mean, bad ol' Kenny is lurking in the wings! As always, thanks to everybody for reading and reviewing my latest effort. I really appreciate your feedback and encouragement. Keep it coming, please! 


	46. Chapter 47

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
A/N: Owing to the fact that I have yet to figure out how to import formatting when I post on ff.net, I am using asterisks (*) to denote telepathic communication between our favorite couple. Also, I have absolutely no idea if Owls Head Park in Bay Ridge has a hill suitable for sledding. It was the only park that looked like it might be within walking distance of the Siri's home. My apologies to any Brooklynites who know better.  
Chapter 47.  
Dinner was an enjoyable affair. The food was delicious and the conversation was lively and entertaining. To his parents' delight, Joey volunteered to make a pancake breakfast for everybody the next morning. In addition, a rematch of their snowball fight was scheduled for the following afternoon.  
  
"Ian and me are a team again!" Gina Marie quickly declared.  
  
Her brother frowned, no doubt remembering Ian's range and the precision of his throws. "Okay," he grudgingly agreed. "But since he's still getting over the flu and all, he can only fight for ten minutes again. Right, Aunt Sara?"  
  
Now it was Nottingham who frowned. 'I am not a child, Sara. Let me be the judge of when I've had enough!' he thought, turning an inquiring gaze on her.  
  
Sara quickly swallowed the mouthful of food she'd been chewing, washing it down with a gulp of seltzer. "Uh, I trust Ian to know when he's had enough, so he doesn't have a time limit this time around," she said, then blinked in surprise. 'Where the hell did that come from?' she mused. 'I so don't want to get creamed by Nottingham for any longer than absolutely necessary!' She glanced at Ian and saw that he was very pleased with her pronouncement, judging by the big grin on his handsome face.  
  
He leaned closer to her. "I do believe you read my mind, my Lady," he murmured.  
  
'Literally or figuratively?' Sara thought uneasily, even as she quivered in response to his warm breath on her ear. "Uh, yeah. Right," she muttered aloud.  
  
"Well, if Gina Marie and Ian can be a team, so can we," Paula Siri said, indicating herself and her husband.  
  
"Fair enough," their son mumbled around a bite of food.  
  
"No aiming at faces, Joey and Aunt Sara!" Gina Marie told them sternly.  
  
"Hey, what about Ian?" Sara protested. "He deliberately hit me in the face with a snowball the size of my head!"  
  
"But only after you hit him in the face first," her niece pointed out.  
  
"That was an accident!" Sara claimed.  
  
"Hardly!" Ian snorted. "You yourself said your aim is legendary for its accuracy."  
  
"Well, you got me there," Sara admitted, grinning. "But how was I to know you were gonna turn around when you did? I'll admit I was going for a headshot, but I wasn't aiming for your face!" she told him.  
  
"A likely story." He looked at Gina Marie, who sat to his left. "I think you had better make her promise not to aim at faces or heads, my Lady," he advised her. "Otherwise, somebody's face might 'accidentally' get hit again."  
  
"Not somebody's -- yours," Sara said beneath her breath, knowing full well Nottingham could hear her clearly.  
  
"Good idea," the girl said, grinning. "Aunt Sara, do you promise not to aim at faces or heads?"  
  
Sara rolled her eyes, but acquiesced. "Yes, baby, I promise."  
  
"Make Joseph promise, too," Ian prompted his sister, noticing that the teenager was trying just a little too hard not to be noticed.  
  
"Joey, promise you won't aim at faces or heads," Gina Marie said to her brother, who sat across from her.  
  
"Rats! Foiled again!" Joey grumbled, leveling a mock glare at Ian. "Okay, I promise."  
  
"Accidents do happen, Gina Marie," Paula said. "Especially if you're laughing too hard to throw straight." Meaningfully, she looked across the length of the table at her husband.  
  
"So sue me! I guess I forgot that snowball fights aren't supposed to be fun!" Robert said defensively. "C'mon, you gotta admit that a face full of snow is pretty funny!"  
  
Ian and Gina Marie exchanged looks. "Mommy and Daddy, promise you won't aim at heads or faces," their daughter said solemnly.  
  
Robert put his hand on his heart. "You wound me, daughter!"  
  
"Promise, Daddy," the girl insisted.  
  
"Okay, I promise, but where's the fun in that I ask you?"  
  
"Mommy?"  
  
"What are you, the Snowball Fight Police?" Paula asked her, laughing. "Tell me this: what will happen to me if I violate the rule?"  
  
"The person you hit gets to put a snowball down your back," the girl said promptly.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! I never agreed to that!" Sara said quickly. "That's cruel and unusual punishment!"  
  
"I think it is only fair," Ian said, nodding approvingly at Gina Marie. "Besides, with your pinpoint accuracy, what are you so worried about?" he asked Sara, smirking.  
  
Sara frowned at him. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're a smartass, Nottingham?"  
  
"I believe you have the honor of being the first," he replied, hazel eyes sparkling with amusement.  
  
A slow grin crept over Sara's face. "Hmmm, that makes twice in one day," she said huskily.  
  
Ian blinked. A moment later, his cheeks reddened as he got her meaning. "Indeed," he murmured, lowering his gaze bashfully.  
  
"Hey, Dad, wanna go sledding tomorrow after breakfast?" Joey asked his father.  
  
"Where were you thinking of going? It has to be someplace within walking distance. No way we can get to Prospect Park for a couple of days yet," Robert said.  
  
"Owls Head Park. The hill there isn't awesome, but it's decent."  
  
"Okay, I'm game. But just for an hour. I've got to save up my energy for the snowball fight."  
  
"Could I come, too, Daddy?" Gina Marie asked.  
  
"Sure, Sweetie," her dad said. "I'll even pull you on the sled there and back."  
  
"Cool!"  
  
"Do you like sledding, Ian?" Joey asked him.  
  
"I must admit that I have never gone sledding. There were no suitable hills in the neighborhood where I grew up," Nottingham replied, neglecting to mention that even had there been, he would have been forbidden to join in the fun. His father had not approved of such childish pursuits.  
  
"Well, you're not going on your maiden voyage tomorrow, Nottingham," Sara said firmly. "Even on smallish hills there's always a chance that you could crash into a tree or someone could crash into you. You're banged up enough as it is."  
  
"Could I at least observe the activities, Sara?" he asked wistfully, enormous green-shot light-brown eyes imploring her.  
  
'God! How can I resist that puppy-dog look?' Sara thought. 'Better yet, how the heck did he ever become an assassin with those eyes?' "I guess that would be all right," she acceded. "But I better not find out that you went sledding down that hill!"  
  
"Aren't you gonna come along, Aunt Sara?" her nephew asked her.  
  
"No, I think I'll hang out here with your mom," Sara told him. She noticed that a slight frown had appeared between Ian's dark brows at her words. She leaned over and rubbed his right forearm gently. "Don't worry, my Protector, we won't be parted long," she whispered, deliberately echoing something he'd once said to her. Had it really only been a few days ago? It felt like a lifetime.  
  
"'If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, injurious distance should not stop my way,'" he said softly, grasping her hand and bringing it to his mouth.  
  
A fine tremor went through Sara's body at the touch of his warm lips, and her pulse sped up. "I love it when you talk dirty to me," she grinned, cupping his face with her hand.  
  
He turned his head and pressed another kiss into her palm. "Do you suppose anyone would notice if we disappeared for a while?" he asked her in a low voice, eyes smoldering with desire.  
  
"We never did take that tour of the house, did we?" Sara said in a louder voice, standing up.  
  
"No, we did not," Ian agreed, also rising.  
  
"Let's start upstairs," she suggested. "If we're not back in half an hour, don't send out a search party," Sara told her family, smirking. She and Ian left the dining room hand in hand.  
  
"Something tells me they're not gonna get further than the guest room," Robert commented wryly.  
  
Smiling, his wife nodded her head in agreement. "That'll probably be the first stop on the tour."  
  
"Duh!" Gina Marie interjected pithily. "They've only been making lovey-dovey eyes at each other all night!"  
  
"Ah, young love," Joey sighed dreamily, and then grinned irrepressibly. "What's for dessert?"  
  
*****  
  
When she and Ian reached the top of the stairs, Sara gestured vaguely down the hallway to the left. "The kids' rooms and their bathroom are down there." She turned and headed in the opposite direction, pulling Ian along behind her. "That's the master bedroom," she nodded toward an open door across from them, "and this," she opened a door at the end of the hall, "is the guest room."  
  
"Hmmm, I see it has a bed," Ian murmured, after glancing around the warm, inviting room, which was tastefully decorated with neutral colors and reproductions of famous works by various impressionist artists.  
  
Sara grinned. "Why, yes, it does! How very observant of you, Nottingham." She reached for the buckles on his sling. "Let's just get this off of you for a little while, shall we?"  
  
"Gladly," he breathed, inhaling her intoxicating scent. His body thrummed with desire, and he wondered idly if the intensity of his need for her would ever abate. Somehow, he didn't think so.  
  
"There." Tossing aside the sling, Sara drew back and looked up at Ian. "Are you okay with just making out? I, um, don't feel comfortable doing anything more when there are impressionable youngsters within earshot."  
  
"Your caution is understandable, my Lady," he acquiesced. "Your cries of passion would undoubtedly carry."  
  
Sara's dark brows rose incredulously. "My cries of passion?"  
  
He nodded, completely serious. "Perhaps you do not realize how loud you are whilst in the throes of le petit mort."  
  
"Uh, let me clue you in on something, cowboy: When you come, you yell loud enough to wake the dead," Sara informed him.  
  
Ian blinked. "I was unaware of that fact," he murmured, coloring.  
  
"Ya-hunh. But before you go and get a complex about it, I should tell you that I kinda like it that you're so vocal," she told him. "It sorta adds to the experience."  
  
Unable to refrain from touching him any longer, Sara reached up and threaded her fingers through his long, curly, dark hair, gently cupping the back of his well-shaped head. "So, you make me scream, hunh? Score a first for you, lover," she whispered, standing on her tiptoes and offering her mouth to him.  
  
For the next half hour, they indulged in a thoroughly enjoyable, if not satisfying, make-out session. By the time they rejoined the Siri family, the kids were ensconced in the family room downstairs watching television, and Robert had set up the card table in the living room.  
  
*****  
  
Just as Sara had anticipated, Ian Nottingham mastered bid whist with astonishing swiftness. The rules only had to be explained to him once before the couples partnered up and play commenced.  
  
Sara peered over her cards at her partner, willing him to figure out that she held six hearts in her hand. She groaned inwardly when Ian bid five uptown. That meant they were probably going to bump heads. Abruptly, she recalled what Gabriel had told her about past Wielders and their Protectors being able to communicate telepathically.  
  
'Is Nottingham my mate?' she wondered cagily. 'Does the fact that we're gonna be parents mean I've chosen him as my mate? Hmmm. Definitely food for thought. But first things first. What the heck is he holding?' She narrowed her eyes and concentrated on trying to read Ian's mind.  
  
"Sara!"  
  
She started as her brother said her name sharply, realizing from his tone that it wasn't the first time he'd said it.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said it's your bid. Where did your brain go?" Robert asked curiously. But then he glanced across the table at Ian and shook his head, grinning. "Never mind. Forget I asked."  
  
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Robbie! I so wasn't thinking about jumping Ian's bones!" Sara protested, drawing startled looks from both Nottingham and Paula.  
  
"If you say so," her brother murmured. "So, what's your bid? Sara!" he exclaimed exasperatedly, when, instead of answering, all she did was stare lustfully at Ian.  
  
"Oh! Sorry! That time I was thinking about jumping his bones!" she said, grinning. "I bid six uptown."  
  
"Oh, ho! Outbidding your partner! Never a good strategy," Paula commented.  
  
'I would have bid even higher if Nottingham had clued into what I was thinking,' Sara thought sourly. 'He's got to have at least a couple of hearts in his hand.'  
  
*I don't cheat.*  
  
Sara jumped. "What'd you say?" she blurted out.  
  
"Nobody said anything, Sara," Robert said, eying her. "Are you sure you didn't raid the liquor cabinet when I wasn't looking?"  
  
"Uh, no. I thought somebody said something to me, that's all," Sara muttered.  
  
"Well, you're the high bidder," Paula informed her, handing her the kitty. "So, what's the trump?"  
  
"Hearts," she said, staring hard at Ian, who kept his eyes on his cards. But she saw that one of his patented almost-smiles was playing about his full lips.  
  
*That's so not funny, Nottingham! You scared the crap out of me!* Sara thought furiously at him.  
  
He winced. *There's no need to shout, my love,* he replied, which nearly caused her to fall out of her seat in shock.  
  
"Ian, are you feeling all right?" Paula asked, noticing his discomfort.  
  
"Yes. My shoulder twinged," Ian said. "I think I overdid it today." He finally raised his eyes and met Sara's wide ones. *Especially in the bedroom.*  
  
*This is really freaking me out, Nottingham!* Sara raised a shaking hand to her temple.  
  
*Is it? And yet mere moments ago you were eager to try to use this ability to cheat.*  
  
She frowned. *I was only experimenting. I don't normally cheat.*  
  
"Uh, Sara, you lead off," Robert said, wondering why she was scowling so fiercely at her partner.  
  
Distractedly, she threw down a card, failing to notice when Paula and Robert won the book. The "voice" in her head was instantly recognizable as Ian's, but it didn't "sound" like his speaking voice. It was less formal and more expressive, as though shaded by his emotions on a far deeper level than his spoken voice could ever be.  
  
*Maybe you'd better concentrate on the game, Sara. We'll discuss this development later, okay?*  
  
*Are you saying I can't carry on a telepathic conversation and play cards at the same time?* she bristled.  
  
*Judging by the last two cards you've played, no, you can't,* he told her.  
  
It was only then Sara realized that she'd let Robert and Paula win the last couple of books uncontested.  
  
*Well, I'm new at this!* she muttered. *Can't we cheat just this once?* she asked plaintively.  
  
*Just this once,* Ian acquiesced, and suddenly an image of his hand flashed across her mind's eye.  
  
*Oh, goody! You've got two hearts and the high joker!* Sara said gleefully.  
  
They won the game handily. In fact, they won most of the games. It took Sara a while to realize that Ian was counting cards.  
  
*Hey! I thought you didn't cheat!* she admonished him.  
  
*Everybody counts cards, Sara,* he informed her. *However, few people are as good at it as me.*  
  
*Still, some people -- mainly casino operators -- would consider that cheating.*  
  
*True. But it's something that I've discovered I do automatically. I don't mean to count, I just do.*  
  
*Well, I'm not complaining or anything,* Sara told him. *If you haven't figured it out by now, I gotta tell you that I really hate losing.*  
  
*I had noticed that aspect of your personality,* Ian said dryly. *Um, Sara, I'm new to card playing, so I'm unfamiliar with what level of conversation is acceptable during play, but you do realize that we haven't spoken aloud for some time, don't you? I may be wrong, but I think our rather grim silence is beginning to make your brother and sister-in-law uncomfortable.*  
  
Abruptly, Sara realized that for the past several minutes, Robert and Paula had been making increasingly stilted small talk while she and Ian had been either staring mutely at their cards or making prolonged eye contact with each other. She cleared her throat self-consciously. "Uh, so when do you think the city will get around to plowing your street, Robbie?" she inquired.  
  
"Not for a couple of days, according to the news. Tertiary roads like ours are the last priority. And the city already announced that the public schools won't reopen until after Thanksgiving," her brother told her.  
  
'Good,' Sara thought. 'That means Irons won't be able to send someone after Ian for a little while longer, even if he has figured out where we are by now.' But she was all too aware that their refuge would eventually be compromised.  
  
*Ian, what will --*  
  
*Now is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion, my Lady,* he interrupted her. *I will answer your question when we are alone.*  
  
"I am sorry that I cannot help you shovel the driveway, Robert," Ian said to his host. "I realize you must do almost twice the work because of my vehicle."  
  
"Don't worry about it, Ian. I'm sure Sara won't mind helping out," her brother said with a smirk.  
  
"Yeah, right," Sara murmured. She stretched, yawning. "I think we should call it a night after this hand, Ian. It's late and I'm beat."  
  
"I, too, am fatigued," Nottingham agreed. "Thank you both for a wonderful evening, Robert and Paula. Dinner was delicious, and I very much enjoyed playing bid whist."  
  
"No wonder! The way you guys whipped us, I gotta wonder if you two aren't mind readers!" Paula said, laughing.  
  
"Beginner's luck," Sara said, keeping her face straight with an effort. "Right, Ian?"  
  
"Most assuredly," he murmured. "Perhaps you would care for a rematch?"  
  
"Well, you're both invited over for dinner and a movie tomorrow night," Robert said. "I'm making my famous lasagna. If you're not too tired, you could stick around for a couple of hands after the movie."  
  
"Deal!" Sara said, winning the last book and the hand. She stood up, realizing that she was truly weary. When Ian rose, she went to him and put her arms around his waist. "You're in for a treat, Nottingham," she said, smiling up at him. "Although I'll deny it if you ever tell her I said this, Robbie's lasagna is even better than Marie's."  
  
Ian's right arm went around Sara. "Your secret is safe with me, my love," he told her. Bending his head, he kissed her lingeringly.  
  
"Uh, goodnight, guys," Robbie said, closing up the card table.  
  
"I'll lock up, hon," Paula told him, a look of amusement on her face as she observed the oblivious, lip-locked couple. "Could you check on the kids? Gina Marie has probably fallen asleep on the couch by now."  
  
"Sure. I'll take her up to bed." He put the card table away, and started to head for the door to the basement, but then paused, glancing at Sara and Ian. "Should we maybe throw some cold water on them?" he suggested to his wife.  
  
"I heard that," Sara said breathlessly, reluctantly breaking off the kiss. "Say goodnight to Joey and Gina Marie for us, Robbie."  
  
"Will do. Goodnight, folks," Robert said again, grinning. He disappeared downstairs.  
  
*You are some kisser, Nottingham!*  
  
*I aim to please, my Lady.*  
  
Arm in arm, they headed toward the kitchen, Paula trailing them. In the coat room, Sara helped Ian into his coat before putting her own on.  
  
"What time should we get here for breakfast tomorrow morning, Paula?" she asked her sister-in-law.  
  
"I figure 9:00-9:30 should be fine," she replied, opening the outer door.  
  
"Goodnight, Paula. And thank you again for a wonderful meal," Ian said, stepping outside before Sara, who noticed that his sharp eyes automatically began to scan their snow-covered surroundings.  
  
"You're welcome. See you both in the morning!" She closed and locked the door behind them.  
  
"Brrrr," Sara murmured. "It's freezing out!" She hurried toward the stairs leading up to the entrance to the garage apartment.  
  
Ian followed more slowly, his gaze alertly searching the shadows. As he started up the stairs, his sharp hearing picked up the sound of a snow plow in the near distance, and he heaved a weary sigh. Soon, the street in front of the Siri house would be cleared, which meant there would no longer be any obstacle keeping the team of men Kenneth Irons had undoubtedly assembled from attempting to retrieve him. It saddened him greatly that Sara's and his respite was coming to an end.  
  
This past day had been the happiest of his life, and he didn't want it to end on a bitter note. However, he knew without a shadow of doubt that Sara would pursue the line of questioning she'd begun while they'd been playing cards, probably the moment he stepped through the door of the apartment. Ian also knew that there was only one way such a discussion could end: badly.  
More to come. Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback that I've received. You are the reason I've been able to keep this story going. Obviously, I, too, am reluctant for the lovers' idyll to end. I couldn't bring myself to get down to the nitty-gritty in this chapter! 


	47. Chapter 48

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 48.  
  
Silently, Ian entered the garage apartment. He heard the toilet flush, followed by water running. A moment later, the bathroom door opened, and Sara came out. She smiled when she spotted him standing in the middle of the living room, and Ian's heart contracted in his chest as he realized that one of his dearest wishes had come true: The Wielder no longer scowled with dislike and suspicion whenever she set eyes on him.  
  
"Here, let me help you out of your coat and that sling," she offered, crossing the room to him.  
  
"Sara, how do you feel about me?" Ian heard himself ask her.  
  
She froze, her hands on the collar of his coat. "What do you mean?" she stalled after a long, uncomfortable pause, turning away from him to hang up his coat in the closet near the front door.  
  
"I know you care for me as a friend and as your Protector," he said quietly, "but how do you feel about me as a man and possibly the father of your child?"  
  
Sara turned back to him and swiftly undid the buckles on the sling, removing it and tossing it aside. "Ian, are you asking me if I'm in love with you?" she asked him, cutting to the chase as usual.  
  
Ian thought about this for a few moments and then nodded. "Yes, I believe I am."  
  
She hesitated and then began to speak slowly, obviously choosing her words with care. "I'll be honest with you, Ian. I've never been in love, so I'm not sure if what I feel for you is love," she told him. "And I gotta tell you that I'm highly skeptical about the whole 'love at first sight' and 'destined to be together' thing, although I know you believe in that sort of stuff. I think you have to really get to know somebody, warts and all, before you can honestly say you love them.  
  
"That said, here's what I do know: I know that I love making love with you." Sara couldn't help smiling as Ian blushed charmingly. "That's right, you stud, you. Absolutely no worries in that department, even though you're still a rookie and I have yet to teach you what really gets my motor running! Think major tongue action. Ahem, but I digress," she murmured, becoming serious again. "I also know that, for some reason, it feels right that you're the father of this baby I'm convinced I'm carrying." She shook her head. "Sounds crazy, hunh? Especially since if someone had asked me a week ago if I could see myself hooking up with you, I would have told them they needed to have their freakin' head examined! I mean, I thought you were some kind of psycho stalker!"  
  
Shadows darkened Nottingham's extraordinary eyes at her words, and Sara realized that the pain her cruel insults had caused him was still fresh. "I said some really nasty, hurtful things to you, Ian, for which I'm truly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?" She reached up and gently caressed his face.  
  
"There is nothing to forgive, my love," he said, turning his face into her hand in that way he had that made her heart melt.  
  
"I think I might be falling in love with you, Ian Nottingham," she whispered, "and it really scares me. You scare me."  
  
He gave her a sharp look. "You need never fear me, Sara. I would gladly fight to the death for you," he told her.  
  
Sara smiled wanly up at him. "That's partly what scares me about you. You're not just my lover, you're my Protector. You won't hesitate to put yourself in harm's way because I'm the Wielder, and it's your duty to protect me. That frightens me because I know there's very real danger out there from enemies that I've never even met but who want to kill me simply because I wield the Witchblade, and yet you don't seem fazed by this at all. Since we seem to be having a real heart-to-heart here, let me ask you this, Ian: What scares you?" she asked him.  
  
His expression became wary. "What do you mean?"  
  
"It's a simple question. What are you afraid of?"  
  
When he didn't answer, just bowed his head and lowered his gaze, Sara said, "Okay, then I'll go again. I'm scared shitless that you'll go back to Irons."  
  
Ian's head snapped up and he stared at her, myriad emotions flitting through his expressive hazel eyes, but he remained silent.  
  
"You answered my question," she told him.  
  
"Did I?"  
  
"Yeah. It seems we're afraid of the same thing." She cocked her head, piercing green eyes studying his face. "Or did I mistake the terror I saw in your eyes when I said his name?"  
  
He nodded. "Yes, you were mistaken, Sara. Not about the fear, but about what caused it. You see, what I fear most is that you will not understand why it is I must return to Irons, that you will hate me for it, and that I will end up losing you," he said, voice cracking with emotion.  
  
Sara was rendered momentarily speechless by shock. "Oh my God, Ian!" she shouted when she found her voice. "I'm not really hearing this, am I? How can you even consider going back to him after what he did to you?"  
  
"Please, Sara, hear me out," Ian beseeched her. "I will try my best to explain."  
  
"You're damn right I won't understand! Are you forgetting that he ordered you to be injected with a poison that nearly killed you, and, as if that wasn't bad enough, that he sicced a bunch of heavily armed, royally pissed-off Russians on you? Plus, he beats you, Ian! God! Every time I think about those scars on your back, I want to beat Kenny's head in with the Witchblade! What do you think will happen if you go back to him, hunh? Especially once he finds out that we're lovers!" she ranted.  
  
"He already knows we are lovers, Sara," he informed her quietly.  
  
Green eyes widened in surprise. "But how did he --?" Her words broke off when she noticed that the Witchblade's blood-red stone was pulsating agitatedly, reflecting her emotional turmoil. "He sensed it through his link with me, didn't he?" Sara whispered, feeling her gorge rise. "Oh God, I think I'm gonna be sick!" She dashed into the bathroom.  
  
Ian winced sympathetically as he listened to her bring up her dinner. "Mr. Irons will not relinquish control of me without a fight," he said softly, when she came out a few minutes later, face pale and eyes tearing. "I must figure out a way to win my freedom from him that will ensure the safety of . . ." his voice trailed off, and he lowered his eyes again.  
  
"That will ensure whose safety?" Sara prompted him, dragging a trembling hand through her hair. "No, let me guess: my friends and family. Am I right?"  
  
"Yes. In an effort to force me to submit to his will, my master will more than likely threaten to harm all whom you hold dear. He knows all too well that I would do anything to spare you the anguish of losing someone you love. Unfortunately, they would not be idle threats. As you know, Mr. Irons has nearly unlimited wealth at his disposal. He could easily make the deaths of your friends and family look like unfortunate accidents."  
  
"That evil son of a bitch!" Sara said bitterly. "So, when he comes for you, you're just gonna meekly go back to him, is that it?"  
  
Nottingham bared his teeth in a feral smile that sent chills up her spine. "I never said I would go quietly, Sara. Mr. Irons has undoubtedly assembled a retrieval team, but he is wrong if he thinks I will not put up a fight. I intend to return to the estate at a time of my own choosing. However, I cannot wage battle with these men without endangering your family. Much as I regret having to say this, we will have to leave here soon."  
  
"But where will we go?"  
  
"I thought we might return to your loft," Ian told her. "When they discover we are no longer here, that is one of the first places they will look, and I will be waiting for them. Outside in the alley, of course, in order to avoid damaging your abode."  
  
"Uh, yeah, of course. Um, you're still not 100%, Nottingham. Me and the Witchblade can even the odds, or even tip them in your favor," Sara said.  
  
He shook his head. "By the time the attempt to capture me occurs, I will be almost fully recovered. I do not want to risk injury to you," he said. "In all likelihood, Mr. Irons will have authorized the use of deadly force against you if you interfere. You could be seriously hurt or even killed. No, it is too dangerous, my Lady."  
  
"Nottingham, I'm not gonna just stand around while you fight half a dozen or more guys by yourself. You got that?" Sara said firmly. "I can't even begin to claim that I understand the hold Irons has over you, Ian. I know you think of him as your father, but yet you refer to him as your master. When he says 'jump,' you say 'how high?' Somehow, you've got to find the strength to break free of his control," she told him.  
  
"The thought of being with you again, Sara, will be all the incentive I need to win my freedom," he said, hazel eyes intense.  
  
"But you yourself said that as long as Irons is alive, you can never be truly free of his grasp, and that so long as he holds dominion over you, you can't be the kind of Protector that I need and deserve," Sara reminded him.  
  
"I cannot kill him, if that is what you are suggesting," Ian said, turning away from her to stare out the window.  
  
"Actually, I was thinking that I'd be happy to do us all a favor and kill the manipulative bastard myself," Sara replied.  
  
Ian glanced at her over his shoulder. "Could you really kill him in cold blood, Sara? I do not believe you have it in you to do that."  
  
She sighed. "You're right. Unless he was attempting to murder me himself, I couldn't kill him. Not if I wanted to plead self-defense, that is." She began pacing back and forth restlessly. "If only we had some sort of leverage that could keep him in check."  
  
"There is something that he wants from you," Ian said slowly, turning to face her again.  
  
"Yeah, the Witchblade," she said. "But he knows I won't ever part with it willingly."  
  
"Not the Witchblade per se," Nottingham murmured, "but something It gives Its Wielders. You see, although It rejected him when he attempted to wield It, the Witchblade gave Mr. Irons the gift of longevity -- the same gift you have been given, Sara. It flows through your very veins. However, for some time now, my father has needed regular infusions of a Wielder's blood in order to retain his youthful appearance."  
  
"You mean to tell me he's been harvesting blood from Elizabeth Bronte's frozen cadaver and injecting himself with it?" Sara asked in horror.  
  
Ian threw her a startled look. "How did you find out about the previous Wielder?"  
  
"The Witchblade showed me her body in a vision," she told him, neglecting to mention the conversation they'd had about him. "But I had no idea Irons was desecrating her remains that way, like some kind of vampire. That's disgusting," Sara said, shuddering with revulsion.  
  
Ian shrugged. "Mr. Irons' will to live is as strong as ever, despite his advanced age. However, ever since the Witchblade chose you as Its next Wielder, Elizabeth's blood has slowly begun to lose its potency. Soon, he will need the blood of the current Wielder in order to survive."  
  
Sara stared at him. "Are you suggesting that I agree to give Irons my blood in exchange for him leaving my friends, family, and the two of us alone?" she finally asked him.  
  
Ian nodded. "Yes, that is exactly what I am proposing. He will only need a minute amount from time to time."  
  
For a moment, Sara found herself wondering if she'd been set up, if everything that had happened over the past several days had all been part of some grand scheme, masterminded by Kenneth Irons with the objective of obtaining a regular supply of her blood. Could Ian have been in on the whole thing from the start?  
  
Suddenly, the Witchblade flared bright red, imparting a searing pain to Sara's wrist. Wincing, she recalled what Elizabeth Bronte had told her in the vision when Sara had asked her how she could help Ian Nottingham win his freedom from Kenneth Irons. "Never stop believing in him," she'd said. "To him, you are this shining light that can lead him out of the shadows forever. But it is your steadfast faith in him that just might make all the difference in whether or not he succeeds in this, the most difficult and important battle he has ever fought in his brief, unhappy existence."  
  
Sara took a deep, shaky breath as she realized how close she had come to ignoring her predecessor's advice. 'Okay, okay, I get the hint!' she thought at the bracelet. 'Cool it!' She met Ian's beautiful eyes, her heart contracting as she saw the apprehension in their guileless hazel depths, and she knew that he'd sensed her suspicion and that he was anticipating her rejection of his proposal and, by association, him.  
  
"Sounds like the beginning of a plan," she finally said.  
  
Ian let out a breath that he hadn't been conscious he'd been holding. "Unfortunately, in order for this strategy to succeed, we must wait until he is in desperate need of your blood," he told her. "I am unsure how long it will be before that happens, but Dr. Immo might know. Based on his actions in hiding the antidote to the poison in the lining of my coat, the good doctor just might be a needed ally in this effort."  
  
"That's if he didn't get blown to bits along with that helicopter the other day. Oh, and I'm kinda attached to my blood, so you'd better be right about Irons only occasionally needing a little bit of it," Sara said. "Plus, I won't do anything that might harm our baby," she told him, placing her hands over her abdomen protectively. She frowned as a thought struck her. "Do you realize this means Irons is gonna be a grandfather? What do you think his reaction will be when he finds out that I'm expecting?"  
  
"Assuming you truly are pregnant," Ian responded, "I imagine he will not be pleased. Especially if the child does, in fact, turn out to be a boy."  
  
"Hmmm. Most grandparents would be thrilled to learn that they're gonna have a healthy grandson. Not Kenny though. He'd love it if you and me started popping out potential Wielders right away. That way, he'd always have a fresh supply of blood on hand."  
  
"Actually, I believe he was hoping that you and he would be the ones extending the pure bloodline. In fact, he was counting on it," Ian informed her.  
  
Sara pulled a face. "He's not my type. Now, you, on the other hand, are so my type it's not funny, according to my partner," she told him, moving into his welcoming embrace. "Tell me something, Nottingham: how the heck did you manage to stay a virgin as long as you did?"  
  
He colored. "I led a very sheltered life, Sara. By design. Mr. Irons has a saying: 'Virginity is invulnerability.' Starting when I was very young, he drummed this into me. Besides, as soon as I laid eyes on you, I knew there could be no one else for me," he told her.  
  
"But you must have had opportunities to, uh, experiment over the years. For instance, when you were in the army," she said. "I've heard some pretty wild stories about shore leave, or whatever they call it in the army."  
  
He shook his head. "The Black Dragons were a top secret project, Sara. We were rarely granted permission to leave the base, especially once the drug therapies began to be administered. After that, furloughs were out of the question."  
  
"When did you first see me?" Sara asked him curiously. "I could tell from the way you looked at me when we met in the Midtown Museum that you knew who I was."  
  
"Mr. Irons identified you as a potential Wielder when you were still a small girl. Through the years, I was shown pictures of you. You could say I watched you grow up. But I did not meet you in person until that day in the museum," he told her.  
  
"Well, you didn't actually introduce yourself until later that evening, but I'll admit you made quite an impression on me." Sara smiled, raising a hand to stroke the bold line of his jaw beneath his beard.  
  
"Did I?" He gently threaded the fingers of one hand through her gleaming chestnut hair.  
  
"Uh-hunh. You were very mysterious and intriguing."  
  
"I felt an instant attraction to you," Ian admitted. "It frightened me how instantaneously powerful my feelings for you were. I had never experienced anything like that before. At first, Mr. Irons thought it was simply a childish infatuation. But when it did not abate, only grew stronger, he began to grow annoyed with me, especially when I started to question his handling of you. It infuriated him that my advice always turned out to be correct."  
  
"Ah, so you think you know how to handle me, do you?" Sara murmured, a dangerous glint in her eye.  
  
"Not even remotely," he said truthfully. "I have the distinct feeling that I could wake up next to you for the next 50 years, and you would still manage to surprise me."  
  
*Even though we can do this?* she said telepathically.  
  
*Even so. You are a woman of remarkable complexity, Sara Pezzini.*  
  
*You're not exactly an open book yourself, Ian Nottingham.*  
  
*I feel as though I'm a work in progress, as if the prologue of my life hasn't even been written yet. I don't think I truly began to live until just these past few months. Meeting and falling in love with you has been a kind of rebirth for me.*  
  
"As if you awoke from a bad dream," Sara murmured aloud, remembering something else Elizabeth Bronte had said in her vision.  
  
"Exactly," Ian agreed.  
  
Sara pressed her cheek against his chest, arms tightening around his waist. "I wish you didn't have to go back to Irons. I don't trust him not to hurt you. Why did he beat you the last time, Ian?"  
  
"Because I disobeyed him," he said simply.  
  
"How did you disobey him?" Sara pulled back slightly so that she could see his expression, which was grim.  
  
"I was under strict orders to stay close to you, Sara," he told her, "but I deviated from them in an effort to please you. I also neglected to keep him updated on events in a timely manner, forcing him to call me instead of the other way around. He was most displeased by this."  
  
She thought about this for several moments. "When you say you deviated from your orders, are you referring to the time you escorted Joey to Amanda's place?" she asked him.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh, my God! You mean you were beaten because of something you did for me?" Sara was guilt-stricken at this realization.  
  
"Do not blame yourself, my Lady," Ian said swiftly. "It was I who volunteered to escort young Joseph to Stuyvesant Town. I knew that I was risking Mr. Irons' wrath, but I decided that if it meant pleasing you, it was a risk worth taking," he murmured.  
  
"Still, I hate to think that doing something for me caused that bastard to be beat you like a dog," Sara said fiercely. "Promise me you won't let him abuse you like that again, Ian!"  
  
"I promise," he said without hesitation. "The other night, for the first time in my life, I prevented him from beating me. I do not know who was more surprised by my defiance, him or me," Ian confessed.  
  
"Okay, we've already established that I can't kill him in cold blood," Sara growled, "but the next time I see him, could I please give him the ass-kicking he so richly deserves?"  
  
Ian couldn't refrain from smiling at this. "Bodyguard or no, you will not get any opposition from me."  
  
"Good. Somebody sure as hell needs to knock some sense into him."  
  
"And you are just the person to do it, eh?"  
  
"Damn straight!" She grinned, but then sobered. "How much longer do you think we can safely stay here, Ian?"  
  
"Another day or two, at the most. As soon as the street is plowed, they will be coming for me. To be safe, we should probably leave Monday morning, whether or not the street has been cleared. With my vehicle's four-wheel drive, we should be able to reach the main thoroughfare," he told her.  
  
Sara sighed. "I wish we didn't have to leave."  
  
"Me, too. This day has been the happiest of my life. I was very afraid it would end on a bad note, with you and I arguing about my decision to return to Mr. Irons," Ian said softly. He felt a little shiver go through her body.  
  
"After you go back, when will I see you again?" she asked him. "I mean, I seriously doubt Kenny is gonna put you back on surveillance duty for some time."  
  
Now Ian sighed. "Unfortunately, you are probably right. He will know how much I want to see you, and thus will take great pleasure in denying me permission to resume watching over you. However, it is in his best interest that you remain alive and unharmed, and he knows the odds of that happening vastly increase if I am around to keep you safe."  
  
Suddenly, Sara had an inspiration. "What if I decided to take Irons up on his offer to learn how to better wield the Witchblade in all of its many forms? Do you think he'd go for that in spite of everything that's happened?"  
  
Ian looked thoughtful. "Yes. As I said, it behooves him to keep you alive, and learning to expertly defend yourself would go a long way toward achieving that goal."  
  
"Well, provided he agrees to let you be my teacher, I think I'll agree to lessons on my days off. That way, we'll see each other fairly regularly."  
  
He reached down to caress her as yet flat belly. "And when you get too big for your lessons, what then?"  
  
She lifted one slender shoulder. "Hopefully, by then, Kenny and I will have come to an understanding. Just so you know, there's no way you're gonna get out of being in the delivery room with me, Nottingham," she informed him.  
  
*I wouldn't miss the birth of our child for the world, my love,* he sent.  
  
*Good answer, but I won't believe it until I see it. You men are real cowards when it comes to that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, I'm not entirely convinced this whole 'I've gotta go back to dear old dad' situation isn't just a convenient excuse to get out of Thanksgiving dinner at my godparents' house!* Sara said, frowning.  
  
Ian blinked. *Actually, being beaten unconscious, shackled, and dragged back to my father's estate is almost preferable to being subjected to another inquisition by Marie!* he mused.  
  
*You got that right,* Sara grinned. She ran her hands up and down his back, smiling to feel his breathing speed up in response. *Hmmm. Since, you're gonna be my instructor in how to fight with the Witchblade, it seems only fair that I give you lessons, too -- in the bedroom!*  
  
*You will find that I am a most eager pupil, my Lady,* he smiled, gathering her closer to him.  
  
"Class is now in session," she whispered, offering her lips to him.  
  
More to come. There. That wasn't so traumatic, was it? Thanks, as always for all of the feedback! I so look forward to receiving and reading it! Please, keep it coming. 


	48. Chapter 49

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun with them. Enjoy!  
A/N: First of all, sorry for the long delay between chapters, people. Real life intruded, sapping my creative energy. That said, FAIR WARNING! This chapter contains explicit sexual situations, so if that sort of stuff bothers you, DO NOT READ ON. You've been warned, so please don't report me to ff.net!  
  
****  
Chapter 49.  
"Something you said earlier has been bothering me, Nottingham," Sara informed Ian a short while later. She raised herself up onto her elbows and looked down at his bobbing head.  
  
Pausing, he glanced up at her through a curtain of dark hair. "I must be doing something wrong," he murmured, and the vibration of his words against her nether lips made Sara's toes curl.  
  
"Why do you say that?" she asked a tad breathlessly.  
  
"Because instead of mindlessly screaming with pleasure, you are still thinking about our discussion."  
  
"You're doing fine," she assured him, absently reaching down to pat him on the head before flopping back down on the bed. "But I wanna know something. You said that Irons has probably authorized the use of deadly force against me if I interfere with his retrieval goon squad's attempt to take you back to the estate, right?"  
  
Sighing, Ian sat back on his haunches at the foot of the bed. "Yes, I did say that."  
  
"So, what I wanna know is how is it in his best interests if they kill me? He still needs my blood to survive, right?" Sara asked, frowning up at the ceiling.  
  
Ian got to his knees and moved between her widespread thighs again. "The Witchblade showed you Elizabeth Bronte's crypt at the estate, did It not, Sara?" he queried, his hands skimming lightly over her body. He smiled with satisfaction at the way she shivered in response to even this slight stimulus.  
  
"Yeah, so?" Sara grinned as she felt the firm warmth of his erection against her sex, but her grin faded as realization dawned on her. "So, what you're saying is if Irons' men succeed in killing me, Elizabeth would have company in her see-through freezer."  
  
"Yes," Ian confirmed, teasing them both by pressing to her until only the very tip of him was within her before withdrawing again.  
  
"And Kenny would be a very happy camper because not only would he have a fresh supply of Wielder's blood, but the Witchblade would be back in his possession."  
  
"Correct," Ian said, leaning over her and nuzzling her breasts, making Sara squirm as his mustache tickled her. "That is why I did not want you to join the fray, my love. Although I know you are an excellent fighter, there is a chance one of my assailants could get off a lucky shot."  
  
"Well, I sure as hell don't wanna end up as a Wielder popsicle, but I also hate the thought of you facing those men alone," Sara told him, crossing her legs around his narrow hips and urging him closer with her calves. "I guess you'll just have to soften them up a bit before I join in on the fun. Besides, I've always wanted to see you in action, Mr. World's Deadliest Assassin."  
  
"Is that so?" Nottingham murmured. He surged all the way into her with one smooth thrust, wringing a tiny cry of pleasure from her.  
  
"Although you deviated from the lesson plan," she gasped, "I'm still inclined to give you an A for effort!"  
  
"Only an A?" Ian panted, his thrusts swiftly increasing in pace. "That begs the question of what would it take to get an A+?"  
  
"That's for me to know and you to find out," Sara managed to say before her body dissolved into paroxysms of bliss. Moments later, twin cries of completion rang out.  
  
*****  
  
Much later, Sara nudged Ian. "Nottingham, are you awake?"  
  
"I am now," he muttered, rubbing his side. Naturally, her sharp elbow had jabbed him in his still-tender ribs. Wistfully, he wished that for once he could wake up next to her pain-free.  
  
"I'm hungry," she said, sitting up and rubbing her rumbling stomach. "Could you go make me something to eat?"  
  
Sleepily, Ian sat up, too. "You want something to eat at," he glanced at the bedside clock, "03:00 hours."  
  
"Yes, please," she nodded. "If you recall, I didn't exactly get to digest my dinner."  
  
"True. What would you like?" Yawning, he flung the blankets off and swung his long legs over the side of the bed.  
  
"A ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato -- mustard, no mayo -- and a bowl of Chicken with Stars soup," she told him.  
  
Ian glanced at her over his shoulder inquiringly. "Chicken with Stars?"  
  
She nodded. "My favorite. Paula included a can with the groceries. It's in the cupboard over the stove. I think I'll have some Saltine crackers, too. And a glass of milk."  
  
"Is that all?" he asked wryly.  
  
"And a couple of chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Hurry up, we're starving!" she whined, shoving at him with her feet.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "We?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm eating for two, remember?"  
  
"And that differs from the way you usually eat how? Dinner is coming right up!" Ian added quickly as she narrowed her eyes dangerously at him.  
  
"Thanks, baby," she grinned, snuggling back down in the bed and watching with open admiration as, naked as the day he was born, he disappeared into the other room. *However, you do realize that you're gonna pay for that last remark, don't you?* she sent.  
  
*I guess I have it coming,* he replied. *I've only seen you eat five meals, and despite the fact that you ate enough for two people each time, that's not enough evidence to support my assertion that you always eat that way. My apologies, my love.*  
  
*Okay, so I pigged out at my godparents' house, I'll give you that,* Sara admitted. *But I hardly ever get to have home-cooked meals and I didn't have lunch that day -- oh, wait a sec, yes I did. A bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Hmmm. Yum!* She smiled dreamily at the pleasant memory of the delicious lunch she'd had with Danny, Vicky, and Jake at the diner near the 11th Precinct.  
  
*Anyway, believe me when I tell you that if you hadn't been sick, you'd have had seconds of everything, too! Marie's cooking is that good,* she continued. *Yeah, granted, I ate more than my share of that omelet you made us for breakfast, but in my own defense I hadn't eaten anything for nearly a whole day so I was really, really hungry! As for those two sandwiches and the half a bag of potato chips I had at lunch, I was merely stoking my energy for the snowball fight. And, well, you know what piqued my appetite for dinner.*  
  
*Methinks thou doth protest too much,* Ian responded, and although she couldn't see him, Sara could imagine the smirk on his face. She could definitely detect its presence in his telepathic "voice."  
  
*Do you ever wanna have sex with me again, Nottingham? If so, I suggest you quit teasing me about my appetite.*  
  
*Yes, Ma'am,* he replied with pleasing alacrity.  
  
Sara heard the microwave beep, and a minute later he came back into the bedroom carrying a laden tray.  
  
"Gimme!" she said, sitting up and holding out her hands.  
  
Ian handed the food to her and then stretched out on the bed to watch her consume it with amazing speed. His eyes drifted shut, but minutes later he was jerked back awake by her cheery "All done!"  
  
"A new world record!" he said beneath his breath.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Yeah, that's what I thought."  
  
He took the tray from her and brought it out to the kitchen, aware of her eying him lasciviously the entire way.  
  
When he came back into the bedroom, Sara was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Ian came up behind her and, moving aside her long hair, kissed the back of her neck.  
  
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Think you're up for another lesson, you teacher's pet, you?" she asked, grinning at him through minty foam.  
  
"Give me a minute," he murmured. Glancing down at himself, he saw that he was already at half-mast. "Make that 30 seconds."  
  
Sara bent over to rinse her mouth out, deliberately rubbing her rump against his groin in the process.  
  
Ian groaned as from one heartbeat to the next, his sex sprang to full attention. He reached around her to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples, and now it was Sara who groaned.  
  
"Take me here," she whispered, grabbing hold of the edge of the sink.  
  
"Here?"  
  
"Yeah. Fast and hard. Doggy-style."  
  
He hesitated. "I am afraid I will hurt you, Sara."  
  
"Don't worry, you won't," she said taking one of his hands and guiding it downward. His fingers delved into the springy chestnut curls at the juncture of her thighs and then into the lush folds of her sex, and he discovered that she was already slick and ready for him.  
  
Sara moaned as he massaged her and then gasped as, without warning, he entered her from behind. She braced herself as he wrapped one arm around her slender waist and began thrusting energetically. The hand between her legs caressed her in rhythm with his movements, and within moments the tension had built to nearly unbearable levels in both of them.  
  
"Faster!" she urged, watching him in the mirror. His handsome face bore a look of intense concentration mingled with pleasure as he increased his pace. Sara glanced at her own reflection and did a double take, almost failing to recognize the flushed, panting woman with wildly disheveled hair who stared back at her through dilated, passion-glazed green eyes.  
  
All of a sudden, Sara came hard, a gasping cry of ecstasy escaping her throat, and if it wasn't for the corded strength of Ian's arm holding her against him, she would have fallen to the bathroom floor in a boneless heap.  
  
When she floated back to earth minutes later, she was surprised to find that Ian was still erect inside of her. He moved slightly, and she shivered from an echo of the tremendous pleasure he'd just given her.  
  
She met his glowing hazel eyes in the mirror again. "You deserve a reward for that one, cowboy," she breathed. "Pull out, and I'll give it to you."  
  
"I want to come inside you, Sara," he murmured, putting both hands on her hips and rocking his pelvis against her in a manner that made her legs go weak again.  
  
"Oh, you will. Now, much as I love the feel of you inside me, pull out. You won't be sorry," she promised.  
  
Slowly, he did as she requested. When he finally slipped free of her, Sara turned and admired his huge, glistening length for a moment before grabbing a washcloth and a bar of soap.  
  
"Let's just clean Mr. Hoody up, shall we?" she said, wetting the washcloth with warm water and working up a lather.  
  
Ian sucked in his breath sharply as she gently washed her juices off his throbbing sex. He had an inkling of what she meant to do, and the very idea of it nearly made him climax right then and there.  
  
*Aren't you curious about how you taste?* he sent, eliciting a startled look from her.  
  
She smiled, wetting her lips. *I'm more interested in how you taste,* she replied, and, kneeling, took him in her mouth.  
  
"Sara!" Ian gasped aloud, unprepared for the incredible sensation of her hot mouth enveloping him.  
  
*Lucky for you we can communicate telepathically, 'cause it's kinda hard to speak with a cock in your mouth!* she chuckled. Delicately using her lips to push back his foreskin, she swirled her tongue around the naked head of his sex, dragging a loud moan from him.  
  
"God, Sara, that feels so good!" he croaked.  
  
*Glad you like it, lover.* She took more of him into her mouth, letting her teeth lightly graze his shaft, and he hissed with pleasure, threading shaking hands through her hair.  
  
Sara stared up at his face as she pleasured him, observing his gratifying reactions to her ministrations. His unrestrained enjoyment of this intimate act was like a potent aphrodisiac, and she felt a gush of liquid warmth between her legs in response to it. She was very aware of the fact that Ian Nottingham had had far too little pleasure in his life, and she was determined to make up for lost time.  
  
"Oh, I think I am coming!" Ian groaned as her tongue flicked the ultra- sensitive spot beneath the engorged head of his sex.  
  
*Go ahead, hotshot,* Sara purred, and her wicked laugh was like a psychic caress. Seconds later, he cried out, shuddering, and she tasted his salty essence. He moaned as she milked him of every last drop, only then releasing him.  
  
"Told you you wouldn't be sorry," Sara grinned up at him, stroking his thighs soothingly. "Let that be a lesson to you!"  
  
Ian's hands cupped her face tenderly. "I am speechless with gratitude," he murmured, and the devotion and love that shone from his enormous eyes warmed her through and through.  
  
Rising, Sara wound her arms around his neck. "Don't mention," she said, kissing him.  
  
His tongue darted into her mouth, eager to discover if his taste lingered there, but he only tasted mint toothpaste.  
  
"It's salty," she told him minutes later when they came up for air. "What do I taste like?"  
  
"Ambrosia," he whispered.  
  
"Oh, go on!" she grinned, delighted. "Seriously, I wanna know."  
  
His provocative almost-smile turned up the corners of his full lips. *That's my answer and I'm sticking to it,* he sent.  
  
*You're one smooth-talking devil, you know that, Ian Nottingham?* Taking his hand, she led him into the bedroom. *Let's get some sleep.*  
  
*I feel as though I have the rest of my life to sleep, whereas we have precious little time left together, my love,* he responded, sighing, and his sudden melancholy made her heart ache.  
  
*Okay, then let's cuddle for a while, and if you're so moved, I could see my way to fooling around some more,* she smiled.  
  
*I'm always so moved by you, Sara,* Ian said, and as he slid into bed close to her, she discovered that he was once again aroused. *It appears that I cannot get enough of you.*  
  
*Well, as you might have noticed, keeping my hands off that hot bod of yours is damn near impossible,* she told him. *I think I'm addicted to making love with you.*  
  
*Me, too,* he murmured, kissing her.  
  
Some time later, right before she drifted off to sleep, Sara gently nudged Ian. "Nottingham, are you still awake?"  
  
"Yes, my love," he said instantly, his words vibrating through his chest, which was pressed against her back.  
  
"I just wanted to tell you that I believe in you," she said drowsily. "No matter what happens, always remember that."  
  
"I love you, Sara," Ian whispered after several long moments, during which he struggled to control his emotions. "No matter what happens, I always will." But she had fallen asleep, a contented smile on her lovely face.  
More to come. Thanks, as always, for the encouraging feedback. Please, keep it coming. 


	49. Chapter 50

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun with them. Enjoy!  
  
*****  
  
Chapter 50.  
  
*****  
  
Kenneth Irons grimaced as he glimpsed his reflection in a mirror in the hallway of the mansion. There were dark circles beneath his hollow eyes and his complexion was sallow and blotchy. He looked terrible, and it infuriated him to no end. Never had his bond with the Witchblade been as trying as it had been over the past few days. First, there had been that unsettling incident in the library, which, combined with his concern about Ian Nottingham's health, had made for a long, restless night. In fact, he'd been so preoccupied with the potential ramifications of Elizabeth Bronte's ghostly visitation, Kenneth hadn't clued in to the fact that he no longer sensed anxiety from Sara Pezzini regarding her Protector's well- being. That alone should had tipped him off that Ian had pulled through but it hadn't, most likely because he'd spent most of the following day reminiscing about his beloved Elizabeth and Ian's formative years while ill- advisedly consuming vast quantities of alcohol. Such maudlin behavior was completely out of character for him, but Kenneth had been desperate to numb the unexpectedly severe pain of these memories. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon that he'd received incontrovertible evidence of his prodigal son's survival, and he wasn't at all pleased by this stunning development.  
  
Ian was certainly making up for lost time, Kenneth thought disgustedly. His erstwhile bodyguard and the Wielder were worse than a couple of randy teenagers. Apparently, they simply could not keep their hands off each other. And, courtesy of the link the Witchblade gave him to Sara, Irons was excruciatingly aware of his son's lovemaking prowess and stamina. The frequency and duration of their trysts had kept him in an almost constant state of arousal since they had first consummated their union. Owing to the unpredictability of the couple's amorous clinches, Kenneth had taken to staying in his bedroom for fear of anyone witnessing the effect the secondhand sensations had on him. The situation was humiliating -- not to mention frustrating in the extreme -- and it fueled his desire to regain the upper hand.  
  
Last night had been particularly grueling. Initially, the anger and emotional turmoil he'd sensed from Sara had gotten Kenneth's hopes up that she and Ian would be unable to resolve their differences, and, more importantly, that he'd be able to enjoy a blessedly uninterrupted night of sleep. But his hopes were dashed shortly thereafter. He'd come perilously close to bursting into tears upon sensing the lusty young Wielder's passion ignite again. And again. It wasn't until well after midnight that Kenneth had managed to fall into a fitful slumber. But then, in the wee hours of the morning, he'd been rudely awakened by them enthusiastically going at it again. And again. He'd even begun to suspect that Sara Pezzini was fully aware of just how her "activities" affected him and was deliberately punishing him.  
  
The strain was showing, and Irons decided that it was high time he put an end to this farce before he collapsed from exhaustion. To add insult to injury, the effects of the last treatment he'd received barely two weeks ago were wearing off with alarming swiftness. Dr. Immo had warned him that once the Witchblade chose a new Wielder, Elizabeth's blood would in all likelihood slowly begin to lose its potency, and the confirmation of this only added to Kenneth's troubles.  
  
As he'd anticipated, the incidents with the Russians had placed him and his empire in the glare of the media spotlight. Moreover, the U.S. government was going through all of Vorschlag Industries' business dealings with a fine-toothed comb. Naturally, they wouldn't find a shred of incriminating evidence, but he could have done without the aggravation. In the span of a few short days, Kenneth's world had been turned upside down, and although he knew it was irrational, he was convinced that if he could regain control of Ian Nottingham, everything else would return to normal. At the very least, he would no longer be forced to endure the erotic marathons that his link with the Wielder continually subjected him to.  
  
So, as he'd lain there in his bed in the wee hours, shuddering uncontrollably in the psychic grip of the Bladewielder's ardor yet again, he'd come up with a plan of action that would serve the dual purpose of alienating Sara from Ian while at the same time ensuring that Nottingham's loyalty once again belonged solely to him.  
  
Kenneth's ego did not allow him to entertain the possibility that the nascent bond between the Wielder and her Protector could withstand the attack he was premeditating. In fact, despite the all-too-literal evidence to the contrary, he hadn't truly accepted the fact that Sara had chosen Ian, a virtual neophyte, over him. He firmly believed that once she was shown the error of her ways, she would turn her back on Nottingham. Kenneth had even managed to convince himself that the Wielder's repeated bedding of his son was an aberration on her part, that she was merely dallying with the assassin and would soon tire of him. However, he was no longer willing or able to wait for this to occur as a matter of course. Much as he hated to admit it, he would soon need Sara Pezzini's blood in order to survive. And although he would have preferred that she be a willing participant in his plans for her and the Witchblade, her survival was not at all a necessity or even a priority. His own was. Now it was time to start laying the groundwork for his strategy.  
  
"Divide and conquer," he murmured to himself as he headed for the security briefing room and the team of carefully selected men who were awaiting his orders.  
  
*****  
  
As usual, Sara awoke first later that morning. She felt surprisingly well rested despite having gotten only four or five hours of sleep the night before. Raising her head, she soaked up the little pool of her saliva on Ian's bicep with a corner of the top sheet and then slowly and carefully turned so that she was facing him.  
  
A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows as his left hand was deprived of the comforting weight of her right breast and she felt his big body start to tense up, but he relaxed as she snuggled closer to him and petted his chest soothingly.  
  
Once again, Sara was struck by how young he looked in his sleep. Enviably long and thick lashes cast half-moon shadows on his face, the sharp planes and angles of which were softened by the tousled mass of dark- chocolate curls framing it. Her eyes were drawn to his full lips, which were parted slightly, and she noticed that his beard and mustache needed trimming. Idly, Sara wondered how he would look clean-shaven. Even younger, she decided. Lifting a hand, she lightly brushed a finger along the strong line of his jaw.  
  
Unconsciously, he moved into her touch, sighing, and several curly sable locks tumbled over his face. Sara couldn't resist grabbing one of them and tickling his nose with it. A few moments later, brilliant hazel eyes opened halfway and regarded her sleepily.  
  
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, smiling, and Sara felt her heart skip a beat at the way it transformed his face from merely handsome to gorgeous.  
  
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she lied, returning his smile.  
  
His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were just brushing his chest. "That is all right. Besides, I think I must still be dreaming."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Sara asked, feeling her pulse speed up as she saw desire darken his extraordinary eyes.  
  
"Because you are here in my arms, and you want me as much as I want you," he told her. "That is, and always will be, nothing short of a miracle to me."  
  
"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" Sara said, brushing his hair back from his face. She smiled to see a blush color his cheeks at her compliment.  
  
"You are the one who is beautiful, Sara, not I," Ian repudiated, gently tucking a gleaming strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "'If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say 'This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces,''" he quoted huskily.  
  
Sara quivered way down low in response to his deep, sexy voice and ruefully shook her head. "I'm totally serious, Nottingham. You're easily the best-looking guy I've ever slept with."  
  
He lowered his gaze again, but not before she glimpsed the shadows in his expressive eyes. "Am I?" he murmured.  
  
She sighed. "I'm sorry. That was an insensitive thing for me to say. But I've never hidden the fact that I've had other lovers from you, and I don't intend to start now."  
  
Now it was he who sighed. "No, you have not, and I value your honesty, Sara."  
  
"You're just not happy knowing that I have a past," she acknowledged. Sara took a deep breath. "Not that this is any consolation, but I've slept with a total of six guys in my life, including you," she informed him before she could think better of it. "Not exactly Wilt Chamberlain, hunh?"  
  
Ian threw her a questioning glance from beneath his lashes. "Wilt Chamberlain?"  
  
"Yeah, he was a pro basketball player who claimed to have slept with, like, 20,000 women." Sara traced a whorl of dark chest hair with one finger as she spoke. "I'm sure you already know this about me, Nottingham, seeing as Irons has kept tabs on me ever since I was a little girl, but I've never found it easy to get close to people, or to let people get close to me. I was what you'd call a late bloomer. I didn't lose my virginity until I was 21, and I'd been dating the guy who did the deed for nearly two months before that. I haven't been in very many serious relationships, and none of them lasted longer than six months. And although I did go out on a number of dates, there hadn't been anyone special for several months before the Witchblade chose me, and definitely nobody since then. Until you."  
  
Ian pressed a kiss to one of her dark eyebrows. "Thank you for sharing that information with me, Sara, even though it was really none of my business," he said softly, aware of how difficult it had been for her to open up to him like that. "And for the record, I did not know your dating history. Mr. Irons never divulged the intimate details of your life to me, although he did insist that I study your psychological profile."  
  
She shrugged one slender shoulder self-consciously. "I just didn't want you to think that I'm easy."  
  
"Even if you had been as promiscuous as Mr. Chamberlain, it would have made no difference to me," he told her. "You are my reason for living, Sara. You give my life meaning."  
  
Sara met his gaze, her green eyes serious. "That's an awfully high pedestal you're putting me on, Ian."  
  
He shrugged. "You are a True Wielder and I am your Protector. But aside from that, you are a woman of honor and unsurpassed bravery. You do what is right, not because it is expected of you, but because that is who you are. Helping people comes naturally to you, Sara. I truly believe that your capacity for generosity is limitless."  
  
"Okay, stop with the accolades, Nottingham. You're making me out to be some kind of saint, and nothing could be further from the truth," Sara protested. "I'm just an ordinary woman. Or at least I was before Witchy here latched onto me."  
  
"You are too modest, my love," Ian murmured, nuzzling her cheek.  
  
"Hmmm. Betcha didn't think so last night when I was giving you head," she smirked. "That was definitely not the act of a saint!"  
  
Startled hazel eyes met hers. "Well, it certainly felt heavenly," he blurted out, and Sara burst out laughing. After a moment, he joined her, his husky laughter making her spirits soar. Framing his face with her hands, she tenderly kissed him on his smiling lips.  
  
"What was that for?" Ian asked when she pulled back.  
  
"What, I need a reason to kiss you?"  
  
"Never, my love. 'Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, though you do any thing, he thinks no ill,'" Ian quoted.  
  
Sara frowned. "You're not my slave, Nottingham. You don't belong to anybody. Not Irons, not me. You got that?"  
  
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he said quietly. "Nevertheless, you and I both know that I am not yet my own man. I am nothing but what Mr. Irons made me. However, thanks to you, I have come to believe that I have the capacity to evolve and to eventually become whole in spirit and in mind," he placed a hand on her as yet flat belly, "as well as someone that our child will be proud to call his father."  
  
"I don't agree that you're nothing but what Irons made you, Ian," Sara said vehemently. "First of all, you're my Protector. He had nothing to do with that, although, much as I hate to admit it, he did me a huge favor by training you to be a walking lethal weapon. Second of all, on several occasions you made a conscious decision to defy him by helping me out, saving my life in the process. Those aren't the actions of a mindless slave. You don't give yourself enough credit for that," she told him.  
  
"Before I met you, I never questioned the orders Mr. Irons gave me," Ian said slowly. "I told you before that I have done things at his behest that would shock and appall you, Sara, but I do not think you realize just how efficiently I did my job."  
  
"That's all in the past now, Ian. I'm willing to put it behind us."  
  
"Are you, Sara? When confronted with the hard evidence of my past actions -- and Mr. Irons will undoubtedly make certain that you are -- you might not be so willing to let bygones be bygones. Plus, the fact of the matter is I will kill again."  
  
Sara stiffened. "No," she said with finality, "your days as an assassin are over, Nottingham. There's absolutely no room for argument on that subject."  
  
He nodded. "Agreed. However, I feel I must warn you that I will show no mercy to those who dare to try to harm you. I will kill your enemies without a second thought," he said coldly. "As someone who is sworn to uphold the law, are you certain you can live with that, Sara?"  
  
Sara could not suppress a shiver as she met his unflinching gaze. "It's not like I have much of a choice, do I?" she muttered, glancing down at the bracelet on her right wrist, whose blood-red stone was glowing gently.  
  
"We always have a choice," he said, his hand stroking the taut line of her back gently, "even when it seems as though we do not."  
  
"Really? Try telling that to Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, and Elizabeth Bronte, just to name a few. I bet they'd beg to differ," she said morosely. "Besides, aren't you the one who believes in destiny?"  
  
"To a certain extent, yes, I do. But I have learned that the choices we make in life have far-reaching consequences. For instance, you could have cast aside the Witchblade at any point prior to the Periculum, but you chose not to," Ian told her.  
  
"Funny thing about that. Several times, I took the bracelet off with the intention of never wearing It again, and somehow It always ended up back on my wrist. But ever since It went medieval on my ass a couple of months ago, I haven't been able to remove It. Gabriel says that's because It's bonded to me on a cellular level."  
  
"He is correct. Only in death can It be removed from your wrist."  
  
"Or until It abandons me when I need It most. That's another cheerful little tidbit Gabriel shared with me. Is it true?"  
  
"Unfortunately, yes. Legend has it that the Witchblade always abandons Its Wielder in her darkest hour."  
  
"Gee, that's a comforting thought." Sara heaved a huge sigh. "Doesn't all of this ever get to you? I mean, neither of us asked for this, but here I am, the Wielder, and here you are, my Protector. Haven't you ever asked 'Why me?'"  
  
"No. When your destiny is laid out for you like mine has been since childhood, you do not tend to question your fate. However, I have often wondered what my life would have been like had I not been raised by Mr. Irons. This time spent with you and your family has given me some idea of what I missed out on," Ian said wistfully.  
  
"Have you ever tried to find out who your parents were?" Sara asked curiously.  
  
He shook his dark head. "No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Abruptly, he rolled away from her to lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, his eyes becoming distant with memories. "When I very young, I used to fantasize that I had been stolen from my parents as an infant by gypsies. Being highly superstitious, the gypsies feared that I was cursed after I started having visions and speaking in foreign tongues. I decided that they were the ones who left me on the orphanage's doorstep," Ian murmured. "But as I grew older and saw how prospective adoptive parents invariably rejected me upon learning about my 'special abilities,' I came to the conclusion that I was wrong. Although I let Mr. Irons think I believed his story about my biological parents dying in a car crash shortly after my birth, I never truly did. You see, the real reason I have never searched for them is because I am afraid to find out that they abandoned me when they realized that I was different."  
  
"Oh, Ian!" Sara said, her soft heart aching for both the lonely little boy that he'd been and the scarred man that he'd become. 'No wonder he became so devoted to Irons,' she thought to herself. 'He was the first person to be completely unfazed by the visions. To a child desperate for love and acceptance, even a cold son of a bitch like Kenny must have seemed like a godsend.'  
  
A single tear escaped Nottingham's right eye, leaving behind a glistening trail. "You did not realize that I was such a coward, did you, Sara?" he whispered.  
  
"You're not a coward, Ian! You're one of the bravest men I know," she said, opening her arms to him. "Come here."  
  
He moved into her warm embrace like a man seeking shelter from a storm and rested his dark head on her chest. She felt him tremble against her and saw that he was struggling mightily to control his emotions.  
  
"Let it out, baby," Sara encouraged him softly. "I've got you, I've got you."  
  
She held him as heart-wrenching sobs wracked his body, her hands stroking his back and shoulders soothingly. As his hot tears fell on her bare skin, Sara abruptly realized that this was the first time she'd ever heard him make a sound when weeping. Before, his tears had always been silent, and if she hadn't glimpsed them she never would have known that he wept. Instinctively, she knew this was a product of his upbringing, and she cursed Kenneth Irons to the seven corners of hell for the towering cruelty that demanded that a child never make a sound when crying.  
  
*I'm sorry my questions upset you, Ian,* she sent remorsefully when he had finally cried himself out.  
  
*It's okay. I didn't realize how painful that subject still is. I guess it's because it has never been resolved,* he replied, his "voice" subdued and introspective. *Does it frighten you that I'm so damaged, Sara?* he suddenly asked her, raising his head to look at her, his bright- red eyes clearly apprehensive.  
  
*A little,* she admitted without hesitation. *But given the sadistic bastard who raised you, I think it's pretty amazing you're not more fucked up than you are.*  
  
*Um, thanks,* he said, his lips quirking. *I think.*  
  
*Besides, you're only chipped, not broken,* she told him, ruffling his soft hair.  
  
*Chipped?*  
  
*Okay, maybe slightly cracked,* Sara shrugged, grinning. *Like me. Thing is, everybody I know has issues -- except maybe Jake -- some big, some not so big. It's part of being human. We all have to work them out in our own way. All it takes is time.*  
  
*The great healer, hmm?*  
  
*Exactly. Speaking of time . . .* Sara lifted her head and glanced at the bedside clock. *Damn! It's almost 9:00. We'd better get a move on if we wanna be on time for that pancake breakfast.*  
  
Ian sat up. "Oh! I wanted to get there early so young Joseph could teach me how to make pancakes," he said aloud, obviously dismayed.  
  
Sara stared up at him. "You're kidding, right?"  
  
He shook his head. "No. I really like pancakes, but I do not know how to make them. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to learn how."  
  
"Well, why don't you jump in the shower first, get dressed, and then head on over there. I'll be right behind you," Sara suggested, stretching languidly.  
  
He started to get up but then hesitated, eying her nude body. "We could share the shower," he proposed. "That way, we could arrive together."  
  
"Uh, not a good idea. Remember what happened the last time we shared the shower. We'd be lucky to get there by 10:00," Sara said, smirking.  
  
"Hmmm," Ian tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could call and see if Joseph is running late," he grinned.  
  
She grinned back at him. "Now there's an idea."  
  
*****  
  
More to come. Much thanks to everybody who has left me feedback. My muse and I crave it, so keep it coming! 


	50. Chapter 51

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. They're the property of TNT and Top Cow. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay between chapters. Real life insisted on intruding! Hopefully, I will have more soon.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter 51.  
  
******  
  
At 10:00 a.m. on the dot, Sara and Ian entered the main house through the unlocked side door, pausing in the coatroom to remove their outerwear.  
  
"Morning, Joey!" Sara called to her nephew, who was standing at the kitchen island wearing an apron over a navy-blue sweat suit. "You can leave the laundry in here for now, Ian," she told Nottingham, who carried two pillowcases full of soiled bed linens, towels, and clothing. She dropped a third pillowcase onto the floor of the coatroom and took off her coat.  
  
"Hey, Aunt Sara, hey, Ian," Joey greeted them. "You're early. I haven't even started cooking yet."  
  
"Oh, good!" Ian said, taking off his coat and hanging it up without Sara's help. He was still wearing the sling for appearance's sake but had just proved beyond a shadow of doubt that he no longer needed it. "I was hoping that you would teach me how to make pancakes, Joseph," he told the teenager, entering the kitchen.  
  
"Sure. They're really easy to make," the boy responded, "and I could use the help."  
  
"Good morning, guys," Paula Siri said, coming into the kitchen carrying a coffee mug.  
  
"Morning, Paula," Sara said, inhaling the tantalizing scent of fresh- brewed coffee longingly.  
  
"Good morning, Paula," Ian greeted his hostess. "Joseph has agreed to teach me how to make pancakes, so I will be cooking alongside him if that is all right with you."  
  
"That's great. Have fun. Can I get either of you some coffee?" Paula asked them, reaching for the coffee pot.  
  
"A cup of Earl Grey tea would be most appreciated," Ian replied.  
  
Paula nodded, taking the kettle off the stove and filling it with water before glancing inquiringly at Sara, who made a forlorn face.  
  
"No coffee for me, thanks," she said, sighing heavily.  
  
Her sister-in-law stared at her. "I must be hearing things. Did you actually just turn down coffee?"  
  
Sara nodded self-consciously. "I'm trying to cut down," she mumbled, coloring. "You wouldn't happen to have any decaf, would you?"  
  
"Well, it so happens that I brewed a pot of decaf for myself," her sister-in-law said, taking a couple of mugs from the mug tree on the countertop and pouring a cup for Sara.  
  
"Thanks," Sara said, accepting it gratefully. 'I'll just pretend it's real coffee. Yeah, that's what I'll do,' she thought desperately. 'You can do this Pezzini. Think of mini-Ian.'  
  
"Morning everybody," Robbie said, ambling into the kitchen. He was still wearing his pajamas and robe. "Mmmm, coffee please!" he said to his wife.  
  
"Good morning, Robert," Ian said, watching intently as Joey dumped a cup of Bisquick into a large mixing bowl, followed by a cup of milk.  
  
Paula poured her husband a mug of the real stuff. "Watch out," she whispered to him, "Sara's drinking decaf."  
  
Robert's eyes widened. "Get out of town! What's up with that?" he whispered back at her.  
  
"What's the big deal?" Sara grumbled, overhearing them. "I'm just trying to cut down on caffeine is all."  
  
"It's just that you're such a coffee whore, Sara," her brother said.  
  
Ian burst out laughing. "Sara the coffee whore! Perfect. I must remember that," he chuckled, but immediately sobered upon noticing that Sara was glaring daggers at him. *Um, did I mention that I love and admire you for the supreme sacrifice you're making on behalf of our unborn child?* he sent placatingly.  
  
"Nice, Robbie, real nice," Sara said aloud. *Yeah, you say that now, Nottingham. Just wait until caffeine withdrawal sets in,* she replied privately. *Things could, and probably will, get ugly.*  
  
"What's nice?" Gina Marie Siri inquired as she sauntered into the kitchen. She was wearing a bright pink, calf-length flannel nightgown that had the Power Puff girls on it. On her feet, were fuzzy pink bunny slippers. She went to the refrigerator and took out the orange juice.  
  
"Now, don't be alarmed, Sweetie, but your Aunt Sara has decided to cut back on her caffeine. She's drinking decaf," Robert told his daughter. "Your mother and I will protect you."  
  
"Good for you, Aunt Sara," the girl said, making a face. "I don't know how you can drink that nasty stuff anyway. One morning about a year ago, I snuck half a mug before I went to school. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Well, at the end of the day, my teacher sent a note home with me saying she thought I was hyper! I just couldn't sit still or concentrate all morning!" She took a glass out of the cabinet over the sink and poured herself some OJ.  
  
"Ahhh, so that's what that was all about!" Paula said, removing the whistling teakettle from the burner and pouring water over Ian's Earl Grey teabag. "I told your teacher she was mistaken."  
  
"Actually, honey, I think your exact words were 'You're crazy, Ms. Marsh, my child doesn't have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder!'" Robert interjected.  
  
"Oh, yeah, that's right. I probably owe her an apology," Paula murmured. She leveled a stern look at her daughter. "Young lady, you and I have to have a talk about 'experimenting.'"  
  
"Just say no to drugs, Sis," Joey said, smirking. "There, I saved you the trouble, Mom."  
  
"Yeah, right, Wiseass," Paula said, giving her son a playful smack upside the head. "Hey, it's after 10:00 and nothing's on the stove yet. You and Ian better get hopping!" she pointed out. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."  
  
"Ian's helping Joey?" Gina Marie said, grinning. "This I gotta see." She started to climb up onto one of the barstools on the other side of the kitchen island/breakfast bar, but Sara grabbed her by the sleeve of her nightgown.  
  
"Uh-unh, no spectators allowed, Missy," she said. "This is Ian's first time making pancakes, and we wouldn't want him to get performance anxiety."  
  
"That's right, Shrimp. Everybody out! We men have work to do!" Joey said, cracking an egg on the edge of the mixing bowl.  
  
"Um, I do not believe eggshell is part of the recipe, Joseph," Sara heard Ian say softly as she started to follow her brother, sister-in-law, and niece out of the kitchen.  
  
"Shhh, it's okay," Joey responded in a loud whisper. "I'll make sure Gina Marie gets the one with the shell in it. She loves crunchy pancakes."  
  
As he'd obviously intended, his sister heard him. "You better not, Joey!" she yelled, pushing past her parents and Sara to storm back into the kitchen. "Mommy, maybe you should supervise," she whined to her mother. "I don't trust Joey not to put something yucky in my pancakes."  
  
"I'm sure your brother was just joking, Sweetie," Paula said. "Isn't that right, Joey?"  
  
The boy shrugged. "Whatever."  
  
"He better be joking!" Gina Marie sniffed, watching with an eagle eye as he fished the shell fragment out of the bowl. "Just for that, you have to make me a chocolate chip smiley-face pancake, Joey," she told her brother. "With whipped cream and a cherry nose."  
  
"I would be honored to make a special pancake for you, Princess," Ian volunteered. "But you will have to show me how."  
  
"Sure," she said, smiling at him. "It's really easy."  
  
Joey frowned, shaking his head. "Nah, that's okay, I'll show him how to make your stupid smiley-face pancake," he said. "Now, scram! The kitchen is off limits to midgets until we're done cooking."  
  
"C'mon, Gina Marie," Paula said, forestalling another eruption from her scowling daughter. "The sooner we leave them be, the sooner we get to eat. Let's play Chinese checkers until breakfast is ready."  
  
"All right, but he better not mess my pancake up," the girl grumbled following her mother from the kitchen.  
  
*That's what you call sibling rivalry,* Sara sent to Ian as she headed for the living room. *I'm thinking we should stop at one kid, Witchblade be damned!*  
  
*I tend to agree with you. Whew!* he replied. *However, Paula and Robert seem to take it in stride.*  
  
*Years of practice, lover. Years of practice.*  
  
For the next half an hour, Sara sat in the living room chatting with her brother, sister-in-law, and niece, trying her best to ignore the slight headache caused by caffeine deprivation. From the kitchen came intermittent bursts of Ian's distinctive husky laugh mingled with Joey's familiar chortle. At one point, she winced, flinching, as she heard something fall to the floor and shatter.  
  
"Uh, slight accident with the mixing bowl," Joey called after a pregnant moment of silence. "But everything's under control!"  
  
Paula and Robert both closed their eyes briefly before exchanging long-suffering glances.  
  
"Told you somebody should have supervised," Gina Marie murmured. "But did anyone listen to me? Noooo."  
  
*Do you need help in there, baby?* Sara sent.  
  
*Um, I don't think so,* came Ian's distracted reply after a moment. *But this is harder than I thought it would be.*  
  
*I'm sure you're doing fine.*  
  
*Maybe you'd better reserve judgment until after you've tasted my pancakes,* he said ruefully. *Apparently, there's a knack to getting them to cook evenly, but I have yet to master it. Joey's, on the other hand, are enviably perfect. Breakfast will be ready shortly.*  
  
The scent of bacon wafted into the room, and Sara's mouth watered.  
  
"Let's go set the table, Gina Marie," Paula said, getting up from the braided rug and their game of Chinese checkers.  
  
"Okay," her daughter agreed, rising.  
  
A few minutes later the swinging door to the kitchen opened, and Joey entered the dining room carrying a loaded tray. "Breakfast is served!" he announced.  
  
Right behind him came Ian, proudly holding a plate in his right hand, and Sara couldn't help but smile when she saw that he wore a red-and-white plaid apron that said "Kiss the Cook" on it.  
  
"Okay," she murmured, going to him. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him.  
  
"Mmmm, that was nice," he said when she broke off the kiss a long minute later.  
  
Sara grinned to see that he'd somehow managed to get pancake batter in his hair. "Which pancakes are yours?" she asked, glancing at the food.  
  
"The misshapen, under- or overcooked ones," he said wryly. "Except for this one." The plate he held contained an extra-large pancake. It had chocolate chips for its eyes and smiling mouth, a maraschino cherry nose, and chocolate whipped-cream hair, eyebrows, and, as an added bonus, a beard and mustache. "Here you go, Princess," Ian said, handing the plate to Gina Marie.  
  
The 11-year-old grinned with delight. "Wow! He's perfect! Thanks, Ian!"  
  
"Let's eat," Robbie said, sitting down and helping himself to the food, which also included scrambled cheesy eggs.  
  
In addition to plain ones, there were also banana walnut and apple cinnamon pancakes. Sara praised Ian's efforts, informing him that his pancakes were pretty darn good given that this marked his first attempt at making them, adding that she herself couldn't have done any better and in all likelihood would have done far, far worse. Her family heartily agreed with her on the latter point -- just a tad too vigorously, she thought ruefully. Her almost total inability to cook was infamous.  
  
Everybody made short work of the food. Patting her full tummy with satisfaction, Sara volunteered for cleanup duty, roping her niece into helping her.  
  
"Uh, things got kinda messy in there," Joey warned them as the two of them started gathering up the dirty dishes. "It was mostly Ian's fault. He was just out of control," he claimed, straight-faced.  
  
"Now, you know that is not true, Joseph," Ian said, shaking his head. "I did my best to clean up as we went along, but it was exceedingly difficult to do one-handed and I was thwarted at nearly every turn by the Mad Pancake Cook there."  
  
"I'll bet," Sara smirked, backing up through the swinging door to the kitchen. When she turned around, she let out a gasp, nearly dropping the stack of plates and cutlery she held.  
  
"Oh my God!" Gina Marie breathed, peering around her aunt. "This place is a disaster!"  
  
It looked for all the world like a tornado had touched down in the formerly spotless kitchen.  
  
"It's not as bad as it looks," Sara said faintly. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time."  
  
"Yeah, right!" Gina Marie snorted. "Aunt Sara, Daddy and Joey have already gone upstairs to get ready to go sledding. Is it all right if I go get dressed, too? I promise I'll come right back and help out with the cleanup." She carefully placed the tray of glasses and mugs she carried onto the cluttered countertop, next to the plates and silverware.  
  
Sara sighed. "Go on." *Nottingham, what'd you do, set off one of your grenades in here? Geez!*  
  
*Sorry! Things sort of got out of hand. I'll come help you clean up, my love.*  
  
*No, no, no. Relax, I got it covered. Rule is whoever doesn't cook has to clean up,* she told him. *But, damn! I shoulda known something was up when I heard all the laughter coming from in here. Thank God they have a dishwasher.*  
  
"Looks like you could use a hand," Paula said, coming into the kitchen. "Where did Gina Marie go?"  
  
"She's getting dressed to go sledding. She said she'd be right back," Sara told her.  
  
"Yeah, fat chance. These days, she takes forever to get dressed. She's starting to become interested in boys, and there just might be boys at the park where they're going sledding. I'll load the dishwasher for you," Paula offered.  
  
"Wait a sec, our little girl is interested in boys? That can't be! She's only 11!"  
  
Paula shrugged. "Kids grow up faster and faster these days. Last week, she asked me if she could start wearing makeup!"  
  
"No way!"  
  
"Yes way." Paula opened the dishwasher and started stacking dishes into it while Sara began clearing off the island countertop/breakfast bar. "So, Ian isn't afraid to try his hand at cooking, hunh? I think he's a keeper, Sara!"  
  
"Yeah. You should have seen him on the way over here. He was actually excited about the prospect of learning how to make pancakes. He makes a mean omelet, too."  
  
"Definitely a keeper." Paula eyed her. "So, you made good use of those prophylactics I found in the apartment, hunh?"  
  
Sara paused in the act of scraping congealed pancake batter off the stovetop. "Uh, well, sort of."  
  
The other woman's brown eyes met hers quizzically. "What do you mean 'sort of'? Don't tell me you didn't practice safe sex, Sara! Even Joey knows better!"  
  
"We tried to. Honest! But the condom broke the first time around, probably because the expiration date passed back when Clinton was still in office. After that, well, I didn't see much point in closing the barn door after the horse had escaped. Plus, Ian's healthy. That I'm sure of."  
  
"Is there a chance you might be pregnant?"  
  
"The timing is definitely right."  
  
"So, that's why you turned down coffee!"  
  
"Yeah. I didn't want mini-Ian to get all hopped up on caffeine, even though he's probably only a zygote at this point."  
  
"Mini-Ian?"  
  
"Yeah." Sara shrugged, smiling self-consciously. "I'm convinced it's gonna be a boy."  
  
"Wow, Sara," Paula said, shaking her head in disbelief. "This is big news. I don't know what to say. How do you feel about this? You're remarkably calm."  
  
"For some weird reason, I'm okay with it. It feels right. Insane, hunh?"  
  
"How does Ian feel about it? Assuming you told him you might be pregnant, that is."  
  
"Yeah, he knows there's a possibility. He's getting used to the idea. It's his father who's not gonna be thrilled when he finds out," Sara said absently.  
  
"Why on earth not? Doesn't he approve of you?"  
  
"Not really," Sara murmured, realizing she'd said too much.  
  
"Then he's an idiot," Paula said firmly. "You'll make a wonderful mother. You know who's gonna be over the moon when she finds out, don't you?"  
  
"Marie. God, don't remind me!" Sara groaned. "Especially since both of us insisted that we were just friends at dinner the other night. She's gonna have a field day with this."  
  
"Poor Ian. She'll hound him into an early grave unless he makes an honest woman out of you. And the sooner the better."  
  
Sara stared at her sister-in-law in open-mouthed surprise. "Me? Get married? To Ian?"  
  
Paula laughed. "No, to George Clooney. Of course to Ian, silly." Then she noticed Sara's flabbergasted expression. "You two haven't discussed this have you?"  
  
"No. Not even close."  
  
"Well, it makes sense to wait until you find out for sure that you're pregnant before he pops the question," her sister-in-law said into the awkward silence that followed.  
  
"Yeah," Sara muttered. "No use jumping the gun."  
  
"Robbie would be thrilled if I managed to get pregnant again," Paula said. "We tried for years after Gina Marie was born, but no luck. But I keep hoping for a miracle."  
  
"I seem to remember you suffered a couple of miscarriages after Joey was born," Sara said, glad of the change of subject.  
  
"Yeah. Three. The doctors didn't think I could carry another baby to term. But a couple of months after Joey turned four, I found out I was pregnant again. We were so nervous we didn't tell anyone until I entered my second trimester. We didn't want to jinx it. I guess Gina Marie was our miracle. I wonder how many Thanksgiving Blizzard babies there'll be nine months from now," the older woman said wistfully. "Probably thousands."  
  
"You'd actually go through the whole thing -- the weight gain, the strange food cravings, the mood swings, labor pains, 2:00 a.m. feedings, teething, the terrible twos, potty training, chicken pox, etc., etc. -- all over again at this stage of your life?" Sara asked her.  
  
"In a heartbeat. I always wanted a big family. Robbie, too. I guess it just wasn't meant to be. What about you? You were an only child. Do you think you'll have more than one?"  
  
"After that little scene between Joey and Gina Marie earlier, I think Ian is already thinking vasectomy," Sara said wryly. "Man, those two sure can bicker."  
  
"Tell me about it. But just let anybody so much as look at Gina Marie wrong, and Joey comes to her rescue. He's always been like that. He might act like she's a pain in the butt, but he's very protective of her. I remember when she started kindergarten. She wasn't scared at all because Joey spent hours telling her all about what school was like so she'd know just what to expect. Even so, he stood outside her classroom for an hour that morning, just in case she became frightened," Paula said, smiling reminiscently. "Last year, when she caught a bad case of the flu, he was the one who cheered her up and fixed her her favorite foods in an effort to tempt her appetite. And when she fretted about missing school, he went and collected all of her assignments, helped her complete them, and even turned them in for her. Although he'd never admit it, he loves his kid sister," she chuckled. "Is Ian an only child, too?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's really good with kids. Both Gina Marie and Joey already adore him. I think he'll make a great father."  
  
"He'll probably spoil the kids rotten to make up for his own upbringing. His father was a strict disciplinarian."  
  
"What about his mother?"  
  
"He never knew her. She died in a car accident when he was still an infant."  
  
"Oh, poor kid. You both have quite a bit in common."  
  
"Yeah, I guess we do."  
  
"Do you love him?"  
  
Sara met the other woman's gaze uneasily. "I think I might be falling in love with him," she said softly. "But how do you know if you're in love with somebody?"  
  
"For one thing, you find yourself thinking about him all the time. And not just about how much you'd like to jump his bones, although that definitely comes into it! When you're apart, you often find yourself thinking 'I wonder if he's happy, sad, bored, or lonely, or if he misses me as much as I miss him.' You think about the way he smiles, or laughs, or the little crease he gets in his forehead when he's worried about something. You think about the way he smells right after he's played basketball for two hours in 90-degree heat, or right after he gets out of the shower, or right after you've made love.  
  
"You think about how your eyes will sometimes meet across a crowded room, and you know exactly what he's thinking without him having to say a word. You think about the first time you saw him cry from sorrow, and how you'd do anything never to have to witness that again, but then you think about how he cried with joy when his children were born, and how you'd give anything to witness that again. You think about how awful it would be never to see his face again, or hear his voice, or touch him, or feel his touch, and you find yourself picking up the phone and calling his job just to reassure yourself that he's all right. You think about how even when you argue, you can hardly wait until you agree to disagree, so that you can make up. It's so true what they say about making up being the best part about fighting!" Paula flushed, laughing self-consciously. "At least that's how I knew I loved your brother. I guess it's slightly different with every person. Tell me something, Sara, how does Ian make you feel?"  
  
Sara thought about this for a little while. "Safe. He makes me feel safe," she finally said, realizing that it was true. "I know without a doubt that he's got my back."  
  
"That's a very good beginning. You already trust him with your life, but you're not yet sure if you can trust him with your heart," her sister-in- law said astutely.  
  
"Yes. The thing is I don't know if I'll ever be sure," Sara whispered, and she was appalled to feel tears well up in her eyes. "He's already admitted that he's in love with me, but our lives are so . . . so complicated. Truth is, I'm terrified, Paula."  
  
"Oh, Sara!" The older woman enveloped her in a warm, motherly embrace. "Give it time. You've only just found each other. Even Robbie and I didn't know we were meant to be together until after we graduated from college."  
  
"Yeah, right. You both knew you were perfect for each other from the moment your mothers put you in that sandbox together when you were toddlers," Sara said, sniffling.  
  
*Sara?* Ian sent a moment before he pushed open the door to the kitchen. *Are you all right? I sensed that you were upset.*  
  
Sara pulled away from Paula, surreptitiously dashing the tears from her face. *I'm fine.* She grabbed a sponge and unnecessarily began wiping down the once again spotless countertop.  
  
"I just came in to return this. It could use laundering," Ian said, and Sara saw that he held the apron he'd been wearing earlier.  
  
"That reminds me," Sara said to Paula. "Do you mind if I do a few loads of laundry?" She could feel Ian's worried gaze on her face, but she refused to meet his eyes.  
  
"No problem. You know where the machines are," Paula replied. "I'll finish up in here. The floor needs mopping, but I want to wait until everybody leaves before I tackle it."  
  
"I don't mind doing it, Paula," Sara offered, but the other woman waved her off.  
  
"That's okay. It needed a good mopping even before the Mad Pancake Cook and his assistant went to town," she grinned.  
  
"Okay. Ian, will you help me bring the laundry downstairs?" Sara requested, heading for the coatroom.  
  
"Certainly." He followed her into the small room and stuffed the apron into one of the pillow cases. *Why were you crying, Sara?*  
  
*Hormones,* she responded shortly, grabbing one of the bags. *Get used to it.*  
  
*****  
  
More to come. Thanks a bunch for the much appreciated feedback everybody! Keep it coming, please! 


	51. Chapter 52

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the Witchblade characters (well, okay, maybe I do occasionally pretend they're mine), I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: I apologize to my faithful readers for the long wait between chapters. The dreaded real life intruded, leaving me precious little time for writing.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter 52.  
  
*****  
  
Vividly recalling the pandemonium he and the boy had left behind in the kitchen, Ian shot Joseph a worried look when Sara volunteered for cleanup duty and enlisted her niece's aid in the effort.  
  
At first, Ian had observed with wide-eyed amazement and more than a little consternation the mess the teenager left in his wake as he prepared three different kinds of pancake batter, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon. However, he soon overcame his misgivings and wholeheartedly threw himself into the endeavor, frequently laughing helplessly at Joseph's antics, which ranged from juggling eggs (unsuccessfully) to attempting to flip the pancakes without a spatula (again without success). Ian's contribution to the disorder consisted of lots of spilt pancake batter and dropping the half-full mixing bowl, causing it to shatter on the tile floor and creating an impressive spatter pattern on just about every surface within a five-foot radius. After this incident, Joseph and he had stared at each other in shocked silence for about ten seconds before the boy recovered first and called out a patently false statement about everything being under control. But now the wreck they'd made of the once spotless kitchen was about to be discovered -- and by Sara, no less. As she and Gina Marie gathered up the dirty dishes, Ian tugged at his beard apprehensively, unconsciously bracing himself for an eruption of Mt. Pezzini.  
  
"Uh, things got kinda messy in there," Joseph murmured nonchalantly, and then proceeded to follow this major understatement with a bald-faced lie. "It was mostly Ian's fault. He was just out of control."  
  
Ian stared at the traitorous youth in disbelief. "Now, you know that is not true, Joseph," he said, shaking his head. He turned a supplicating gaze on Sara. "I did my best to clean up as we went along, but it was exceedingly difficult to do one-handed and I was thwarted at nearly every turn by the Mad Pancake Cook there," he told her, frowning sternly at his partner in crime.  
  
Joseph just grinned at him unrepentantly.  
  
"I'll bet," Sara smirked, backing through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, followed closely by Gina Marie.  
  
Ian clearly sensed the Wielder's shock at what she found, and everybody at the table heard Gina Marie gasp "Oh my God! This place is a disaster!"  
  
Only Ian and Gina Marie heard Sara's faint response. "It's not as bad as it looks," she said unconvincingly. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time."  
  
"Yeah, right!" her niece opined skeptically.  
  
"My work here is done!" Joey said blithely, jumping up from the table. "I'm off to get dressed to go sledding. Coming, Dad?"  
  
"Yeah." Robert got up from the table. As he passed his wife's chair, he gave her shoulders a squeeze and dropped an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.  
  
*Nottingham, what'd you do, set off one of your grenades in here? Geez!* Sara sent irritably.  
  
*Sorry!* Ian replied guiltily. *Things sort of got out of hand. I'll come help you clean up, my love.* Truth was, he hadn't really made much of an effort to clean up as he and young Joseph went along; he'd been having way too much fun for that.  
  
*No, no, no. Relax, I got it covered. Rule is whoever doesn't cook has to clean up,* Sara refused his offer, heaving a mental sigh. *But, damn! I shoulda known something was up when I heard all of the laughter coming from in here. Thank God they have a dishwasher,* she grumbled.  
  
"It's pretty bad in there, isn't it?" Paula said, correctly reading his guilt-stricken expression.  
  
Ian nodded sheepishly. "I'm afraid so."  
  
"Don't sweat it," she said, rising. "I'll go help Sara and Gina Marie out. It's only fair since I didn't do the cooking. Oh, by the way, you might want to check out the bathroom mirror." And with that last intriguing comment, she disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
Ian headed upstairs to the bathroom that Sara had indicated on their abbreviated tour of the house that the kids primarily utilized only to find Gina Marie in there fussing with her hair in front of the mirror.  
  
"Oh, do you need to get in here?" she asked when she finally noticed him hovering in the doorway.  
  
"Just for a moment," Ian murmured. A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows. "Were you not supposed to be helping your aunt clean up the kitchen?"  
  
The girl shrugged. "Aunt Sara said I could go get dressed to go sledding," she told him, apparently oblivious to the fact that she had yet to do so.  
  
"I see."  
  
"I'm having a bad hair day," Gina Marie informed Ian, frowning at her dark, shoulder-length hair in the mirror. "It sucks having straight hair. I wish it was wavy like my mom's or curly like yours, which has pancake batter in it, by the way."  
  
"It does?"  
  
"Yeah. Take a look," she said, gesturing for him to join her at the mirror.  
  
Ian saw that he had in fact somehow managed to get a glob of batter in his hair, which he wore loose. "So, that is what your mother was talking about," he murmured. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the sink.  
  
"Go ahead. But you might need to use a little shampoo to get it out. It looks like it's caked on pretty good," Gina Marie observed, turning and opening the sliding glass door that enclosed the bathtub. "Here, this is my shampoo." She handed him a brightly colored plastic bottle. "It's kiwi scented."  
  
"Thank you, Princess." Setting the bottle down, Ian turned on the water and wet the lock of hair that had the pancake batter in it. Instantly, the gooey substance began to dissolve and drip onto the front of the apron that he only then realized he was still wearing. He quickly discovered that it was not going to be easy to wash out his hair one- handed, but the girl was showing no signs of leaving the bathroom anytime soon. Consequently, he could not remove his sling to tackle the task.  
  
"Here, let me help you," Gina Marie said, grabbing the shampoo. "Bend over the sink so I can reach your hair," she instructed him. "You're so tall!"  
  
Ian did as he was told, and the preteen girl poured a dab of the sweet-smelling shampoo out onto her palm. She worked it through the lock of hair, creating a rather alarming amount of lather, and then carefully rinsed it out, using a Dixie cup that she got from a dispenser mounted over the sink.  
  
"There. All clean," Gina Marie announced, blotting his hair with a hand towel.  
  
"Thank you, Gina Marie. Do you have an elastic band I could borrow? I think I will wear my hair back. However, I will need your assistance once again."  
  
"Sure. I could even braid your ponytail for you," she offered.  
  
"I do not wish to impose on you. After all, you still have your own hair to do."  
  
The 11-year-old shrugged again. "It's hopeless, but I can fix yours up really nice. Just let me get the package of fancy hair bands from my room," she said. "I'll be right back."  
  
Ian waited, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. He was not sure he liked the sound of "fancy" hair bands.  
  
Five minutes later, his hair had been neatly plaited into what Gina Marie claimed was an "awesome French braid." She tied off the end of the braid with a fuzzy fuchsia-colored elastic band.  
  
"There. You look very handsome, Ian," she said, smiling at him in the mirror.  
  
"Thank you, Princess. I could not have done it without you, especially with my arm in this sling," Ian told her, fervently hoping he could manage to put his hat on before anybody noticed his new hairstyle.  
  
"Anytime. Now, I have to go get dressed. See you downstairs." She left.  
  
Ian glumly gazed at his reflection in the mirror, absently noting that his beard and mustache needed trimming and that fuchsia was definitely not his color. Sighing, he closed the bathroom door and used the toilet.  
  
'Maybe if I act nonchalant, nobody will notice my hair,' he mused as he washed his hands. 'Yeah, I'll just casually go downstairs, head straight for the coat room, and put my hat on. That won't look suspicious. We are going outside soon, after all.'  
  
However, a moment later, Ian forgot all about his predicament when he sensed that Sara was upset. Removing the apron, he swiftly descended to the first floor.  
  
*Sara?* he sent worriedly, a moment before entering the kitchen through the dining room. *Are you all right? I sensed that you were upset.*  
  
Sara hastily pulled away from Paula Siri's comforting embrace when Ian appeared. *I'm fine,* she lied, turning away from him, but not before he saw her brush tears from her cheeks. She grabbed a sponge and began wiping down the once again spotless countertop.  
  
"I just came in to return this. It could use laundering," Ian said aloud, holding up the apron.  
  
Sara threw a quick look over her shoulder, but otherwise steadfastly avoided making eye contact with him. "That reminds me," she said to Paula. "Do you mind if I do a few loads of laundry?"  
  
"No problem," their hostess said. "You know where the machines are. I'll finish up in here. The floor needs mopping, but I want to wait until everybody leaves before I tackle it."  
  
Sara frowned. "I don't mind doing it, Paula," she protested, but her sister-in-law waved her off.  
  
"That's okay," she assured her. "It needed a good mopping even before the Mad Pancake Cook and his assistant went to town." Her good- natured grin took the sting out of the words for Ian.  
  
"Okay. Ian, would you help me bring the laundry downstairs?" Sara asked him.  
  
"Certainly," he said, following her into the coat room.  
  
*Why were you crying, Sara?* he sent as he stuffed the soiled apron into one of the pillow cases that was doubling as a laundry bag.  
  
*Hormones,* she said, her tone clearly warning him not to pursue the topic. *Get used to it.*  
  
As he followed her down into the basement, Ian fought back the feeling of panic that her attitude engendered in him. Despite everything they had gone through over the past week, he still could not fully convince himself that she wouldn't suddenly revert back to her old self, the one who hated and mistrusted him. It hurt when she shut him out like this. A lot. But he knew her well enough to know that she had to work out whatever it was that was bothering her at her own pace. Letting her see how apprehensive he was would only make matters worse. So, he waited, unaware that Sara clearly sensed his anxiety.  
  
*****  
  
"Are you sure you do not wish to come sledding with us?" Ian asked Sara quietly, watching her load the washing machine in an alcove adjacent to the family room.  
  
It was the first words either of them had spoken in several minutes, aloud or otherwise.  
  
After they'd left the kitchen, the silence between them had quickly grown uncomfortable, but Sara had stubbornly refused to break it. Although she knew Ian hadn't believed her excuse for her tears, there was no way she was going to admit the truth of the matter to him. Actually, she truly believed hormones were at the root of her uncharacteristically emotional state. What other explanation could there be for her lapse in self-control just now in the kitchen? Now Nottingham was anxious, fearing that he was somehow to blame -- and with good reason. She could sense the anxiety coming off him in waves, and it added to the maelstrom of emotions that was threatening to make her burst into tears again or, worse, lash out at him. Sara hated feeling so off-balance.  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure. I think I'll take a nap. I've got a bit of a headache," she admitted, keeping her voice level with an effort. "The sleep will do me good."  
  
"Do you want me to stay with you? I do not mind," Ian said softly. Coming up behind her, he placed his big, warm hands on her shoulders and gently began to massage them.  
  
At first, Sara stiffened, but then gradually relaxed beneath his touch. She groaned softly as his thumbs dug into the base of her skull, breaking up the knots that had formed there over the course of several stress-filled days. Tension magically melted away from her neck and shoulder muscles, and with a grateful sigh, she turned and slid her arms around Ian's waist, pressing her face against his chest. Strong arms automatically encircled her.  
  
"Thanks, baby," she whispered, "I needed that."  
  
"Anytime, my love. So, would you like company while you nap?" he asked again, his words causing his chest to vibrate pleasantly beneath her cheek.  
  
"Nah. Somehow, I don't think we'd end up doing much napping. Funny, how that happens when we're in the vicinity of a bed," she said wryly, inhaling his familiar scent with pleasure. "You go on. The fresh air and exercise will do you good. But at the risk of repeating myself, I'd really rather you didn't actually do any sledding. I don't want you to run the risk of re-injuring yourself," she told him, only then realizing that he'd taken off the sling. "What happened to your sling?"  
  
Sighing, Ian removed it from the back pocket of his borrowed jeans. "Although I realize that most people who have suffered the same type of injuries that I did normally wear a sling for quite a bit longer, I was hoping I could get away with not wearing it for the rest of the day," he murmured.  
  
"Uh, not a good idea. Robbie would definitely think it was strange. He majored in sports medicine and is a physical therapist, so he's very familiar with just how long it takes to recover range of motion after dislocating a shoulder, not to mention breaking your collarbone. You'd better keep wearing it," Sara told him. "As soon as we leave here, you can chuck it for good."  
  
Ian sighed again, but acquiesced, allowing her to help him put the contraption back on. "I will return within an hour and a half, Sara," he said, his lips brushing her forehead.  
  
"I'll be napping in the guest room upstairs. Please, Ian, no matter how much fun it looks like Joey, Gina Marie, and Robbie are having, promise me you won't take any chances on taking a ride down the hill," Sara reiterated, meeting his gaze.  
  
"I will merely be a spectator, my Lady," he promised solemnly.  
  
"Good. See you in a couple of hours," she said. He turned to leave, but Sara caught a flash of bright pink out the corner of her eye, and did a double-take. "Wait a sec," she said, staring at the back of his head. "Ian, is that a French braid?"  
  
He froze. "Yes, Sara, it is."  
  
"And what in God's name possessed you to fix your hair like that?"  
  
"I did not do it, your niece did." He sighed, darting an embarrassed look at her from beneath his lashes. "She helped me wash the pancake batter out of my hair, which, by the way, you could have told me about. I am sure you noticed it."  
  
Sara smirked at him. "Go on. I'm dying to know how you got talked into this."  
  
"Well, I decided to wear my hair back, but I did not have an elastic band on me, so I asked Gina Marie if she had one she could spare. I also enlisted her aid in securing my hair," he indicated the detested sling, "which is impossible to do one-handed. She said yes, then offered to braid my ponytail for me. Unwisely, I accepted her offer. I did not have the heart to stop her when she began French-braiding my hair. She was very proud of the end result and assured me that I looked very handsome."  
  
"And stylish, too. Who knew you were such a softy, Nottingham?" she grinned. "I advise you to keep your hat on when you head out to the park. That is, unless you actually want your bad-ass rep to be completely destroyed."  
  
"I think it is already too late to prevent that," he said wryly. "I do not know many bad asses who enjoy making smiley-face pancakes -- or at least none who would dare to admit it."  
  
Sara's smile widened as she remembered his obvious pride in said pancake. "You've got a point there. You'd better get going," she said, hearing the tromping of feet overhead. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."  
  
"Get some rest, my love," he said, pressing an all-too-brief kiss to her lips.  
  
"I will. Have fun," she murmured. He left.  
  
Sara finished loading the washing machine, added detergent, and started it. Next, she filled the sink next to the machine with cold water, putting Nottingham's wool trousers and thermal underwear, both of which were stiff with dried blood, in to soak. Within minutes, the water turned reddish brown, a stark reminder of how close she'd come to losing Ian. Mindful of Paula's presence in the house, Sara opened the drain and thoroughly rinsed both garments before tossing the long johns into the churning washing machine and then refilling the sink and adding Woolite. When she was satisfied that the trousers were clean, she rinsed them out again and hung them up to drip dry on a nearby wooden drying rack. Idly, she acknowledged that this was probably not the last time she'd find herself washing blood out of her Protector's clothing. Not even close. It came with the territory, she thought morosely, glancing at the Witchblade. The bracelet's red stone was dark. In fact, ever since the vision It had imparted of her and Ian's future offspring, she hadn't sensed anything from It. She was grateful for the reprieve, but she knew it wouldn't last. Just as she knew that her and Ian's idyll was rapidly coming to an end.  
  
She waited until the first load was ready to be removed from the washer and then transferred it to the dryer before refilling the washing machine with more dirty laundry and restarting it. Rubbing her aching temples, she wearily trudged upstairs.  
  
"When did they leave?" she inquired from the kitchen doorway.  
  
Paula was almost finished mopping the kitchen floor. "About 20 minutes ago," she said, eying Sara's dispirited mien.  
  
"I'm gonna go lie down for a while in the guest room. I've got a bitch of a caffeine withdrawal headache," Sara told her.  
  
Her sister-in-law made a sympathetic face. "Ouch. It's not gonna be fun until you do, but you'll be glad when you finally get the java monkey off your back. It took me a couple of months to kick the habit, but I hardly ever miss real coffee anymore. Hope you feel better when you wake up, Sweetie."  
  
"Me, too," Sara said. "Oh, I've got a load in the dryer and another in the machine, but I'll finish doing the rest of the laundry after lunch. Under no circumstances are you to do it, you got that?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am. Sleep tight."  
  
Sara slowly made her way up to the second floor and the guest room. Unlacing and then kicking off her boots, she stretched out on the bed with a weary sigh, covering herself with the heavy cotton bedspread.  
  
But sleep turned out to be elusive. Her restless mind kept going over what she had admitted to Paula about being terrified of falling in love with Ian Nottingham.  
  
She could not help but feel that her fear was irrational, especially when confronted with evidence of just how gentle and good-natured Ian could be. Like earlier, when she had noticed his French-braided hair. She was certain that it had never entered his mind to deny her 11-year-old niece the pleasure of styling his hair like that. It was at times like these that Sara found it very hard to remember that he was a very, very dangerous man. However, when it really came down to it, she believed she had good reason to be afraid of giving him her heart. Despite her assertion earlier that morning that he was merely cracked, not broken, Sara acknowledged that she really had no idea how badly damaged he'd been by the man he thought of as his father/master. The stories Ian had told her about his upbringing and the physical and psychological evidence that had been left behind spoke volumes about Kenneth Irons' cruelty. Ian's silent tears, habitual submissiveness, and, until recently, maddening predilection for speaking in riddles all pointed to the unholy influence the man who'd raised him (for want of a better term) had exerted over him -- still did, she swiftly reminded herself. The chains that bound Ian to Irons were very much intact. This fact in and of itself made her blood run cold. In the vision Sara had had the night her Protector had come perilously close to dying, Elizabeth Bronte had exhorted her to do everything in her power to help him win his freedom from the "Iron Man." Believing in him, as Sara had professed to do, was all well and fine, but she couldn't help but wonder if it would be enough to overcome the lifelong conditioning of subservience and unswerving loyalty to the charismatic and powerful billionaire.  
  
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he'd said earlier that morning, when Sara had asserted that he didn't belong to anyone. But what about body and mind? Kenneth Irons had molded Ian Nottingham into perhaps the world's deadliest assassin, one who was mysteriously imbued with superhuman strength, speed, and reflexes, as well as amazing recuperative powers. Furthermore, Ian had told her that he and his fellow Black Dragons had been schooled in all of the intellectual arts in an effort to fulfill Irons' vision of them as "poet warriors." Not only that, the ruthless billionaire had subjected the former members of this top- secret military project to experimental drug therapies meant to enhance their intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, and, most important of all, their obedience. Nottingham had admitted that until he met her, he had never questioned the orders the man he called his master had given him.  
  
Sara was honest enough with herself to admit that she harbored more than a little trepidation about just what Ian had done at Irons' behest. She had the sinking suspicion that her resolve to believe in her Protector would be sorely tested when his past misdeeds came to light, as he had warned her that Irons would make certain of. And although she highly doubted Kenneth Irons would be so foolish as to make common knowledge the various assassinations Ian had so loyally carried out on his behalf, thereby incriminating himself, Sara had the awful feeling that he would contrive to let those she cared about know exactly what sort of man she had taken up with. This called for some kind of preemptive strike, but she squirmed uneasily as she envisioned attempting to explain to her friends and family that her lover and father-to-be of her baby had a blood-soaked, extremely violent past.  
  
'Yeah, Danny, Ian used to kill people for a living. But now that we're together, he's out of the assassination business. Oh sure, he'll gladly kill again if necessary. That's what he was born to do. You see, he's my Protector, and there's these bad people out there who want to kill me because of this pretty bracelet I wear, which, by the way, isn't simply a piece of jewelry. It's an ancient, sentient weapon, and I'm Its Wielder. Oh, and did I mention that I'm pregnant with Mr. Walking Lethal Weapon's child?'  
  
"God help me!" Sara groaned aloud, vainly massaging her throbbing forehead. Could her life get any more complicated? As if of its own volition, her right hand went to her abdomen. 'Oh, yeah, that's right,' she mused. 'In about nine months, it sure as hell will.'  
  
"Hello in there?" she whispered. "It's me, your Mommy. The Wielder. Maybe I'd better get a head start on explaining the meaning of 'dysfunctional family' to you. And while I'm at it, I should probably tell you that your Daddy really isn't to blame for all of the murders he's committed. Your Grandfather is responsible for that."  
  
Abruptly, it occurred to Sara that, perhaps better than anyone else (with the possible exception of Irons, but that didn't bear thinking about), Ian could relate to her predicament. After all, he'd been born with his bond to the Witchblade, and thus was all-too-familiar with the unique quandaries associated with serving It. He would be an invaluable ally in her attempt to restore some semblance of order to her increasingly chaotic life -- if such a thing were even possible. She also reminded herself that he would be an extremely willing participant in his struggle to break free of Kenneth Irons' hold. If anything, Sara would be moral support. Nottingham would be forced to do most of the hard work all by his lonesome. Suddenly, she found that she missed him terribly.  
  
*Ian?* she sent, wondering if the distance separating them made it difficult or even impossible for them to communicate telepathically.  
  
*Yes, my love?* he responded instantly.  
  
*Nothing. I was just seeing if we could still do this even though you're not nearby.*  
  
*I believe I could be a thousand miles from you, Sara, and I'd still be able to hear your thoughts.*  
  
*Uh, I hope you're not planning on testing that theory anytime soon.*  
  
*No, my love. If it were left up to me, I would never leave your side again.*  
  
*Well, I wish I'd taken you up on your offer to nap with me,* she told him. *I can't seem to fall asleep without you next to me. I miss you, baby.*  
  
*I miss you, too, Sara.*  
  
*Would you be terribly disappointed to cut short your outing?*  
  
*Not at all. I've already seen enough. Just let me tell Robert that I'm leaving, and I'll be there within minutes.*  
  
*Okay, if you're sure.*  
  
*I'm sure. Although observing the activities is highly entertaining in and of itself, it's frustrating not being able to join in,* he said a tad wistfully. *Oh, and you were right about sledding being dangerous, Sara. I've been here barely 15 minutes and already I've witnessed two crashes. Thankfully, neither was serious. However, some of the more rambunctious youngsters appear to think sledding is a contact sport -- Joseph included, much to your brother's dismay. And the hill in this park isn't even that steep. It must be thrilling to slide down a really large hill. I'll bet you could build up quite a bit of speed. I'd like to go sledding with you before this winter is through, Sara.*  
  
*To be honest, the possibility of crashing is a major part of sledding's attraction for me,* Sara admitted. *It's the adrenaline junky in me, I guess. In fact, the bigger the hill, the better! But contrary to what you might think, that does not extend to other areas of my life, like riding my Buell,* she said wryly, forestalling the remark she sensed was on the tip of Ian's tongue. *However, I think I'd better wait until I don't have a baby on board before I go sledding with you, Nottingham. Now, get your butt back here!* Mentally, Sara disconnected, but she became aware of a warm presence on the edge of her consciousness that from that moment on she identified as Ian. She smiled to feel a wave of anticipation at seeing him again wash over her. Even the pain of her headache seemed to subside, and although she was convinced that she would not be able to fall asleep until her lover's comforting warmth was beside her once again, she dozed off.  
  
*****  
  
More to come. Thanks, as always for all of your wonderful feedback. I couldn't continue without it! 


	52. Chapter 53

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: No, I don't own the Witchblade characters. Yes, I wish I did.  
  
Author's Note: My sincere (as opposed to insincere) apologies for the reprehensibly long wait between chapters. I was suffering through a creative drought, perhaps in response to the dreary weather we had been experiencing here in the Northeast. Now that if feels more like summer, my muses have returned. A belated happy summer solstice to everybody! And I promise that chapter 54 will not be far behind!  
  
Chapter 53  
  
When Ian came upstairs, Paula Siri was sitting at the kitchen island/breakfast bar drinking a glass of orange juice, and her husband and son were in the coatroom, putting on their boots and outerwear. Ian joined them, nonchalantly grabbing his knit hat and putting it on his head -- no mean feat one-handed. He was relieved when neither Robert nor Joseph appeared to notice his hairstyle.  
  
"Here, let me help you with that," Robert offered as Ian took his coat off its hook. "You should probably wear that sling on the outside, so you can button your coat against the cold," he suggested.  
  
Ian nodded. "That makes sense."  
  
With the ease of long practice, Robert removed the sling, eased Ian's supposedly useless left arm into the coat sleeve, put the sling back on, and buttoned the younger man's coat for him.  
  
"Is this your first dislocation?" he asked Ian as he adjusted the straps.  
  
"No," Ian said. 'Not even close,' he thought ruefully.  
  
"How soon were you able to relocate the joint?"  
  
"Within half an hour."  
  
"Immediately would have been best, but I'm sure you know that."  
  
"I do, but, unfortunately, that was not an option at the time."  
  
"I see. I suggest getting an MRI as soon as possible. If you need or want a consultation, I know several excellent orthopedic surgeons. Just let me know."  
  
"Thank you, Robert, I will."  
  
Joey stepped into the kitchen and then into the hallway. "Gina Marie! We're leaving!" he bellowed. "If you're coming, you better come now!"  
  
"I'll be right down!" the girl yelled. Moments later, she came skipping down the stairs.  
  
"How do I look, Mommy?" she asked her mother, pirouetting in front of her.  
  
"Adorable, but then I'm biased," Paula smiled.  
  
"What difference does it make? Nobody's gonna see what you're wearing underneath your coat anyway," Joey muttered, rolling his eyes.  
  
"This is the sweater Grandma Marie made me for my birthday last year," the girl said, ignoring her brother. "I'm finally big enough to wear it!"  
  
"Oh, hold on a sec!" Paula exclaimed, jumping up. "Let me get the camera and take a picture of you in it. Marie will be thrilled."  
  
From the coatroom, Joey let out a groan. "Can't we just sneak out now?" he asked his father, who shook his head.  
  
"Miracle of miracle, there's actually film in the camera," Paula said, returning. "Smile, Sweetie!"  
  
Grinning, Gina Marie struck a pose that showed off the hand-knit pastel pink, blue, and yellow argyle sweater she wore over a white turtleneck. Ian averted his eyes so they wouldn't be dazzled by the flash.  
  
"Take another one, just in case the first one doesn't come out," the girl instructed her mother, who obliged. "Can you take one of all of us outside, so we'll have a picture of the blizzard?" she suggested.  
  
"That's a good idea," Paula said. "I'll take it once you've gotten the sleds out and are ready to head to the park."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up and put your coat and boots on, Pipsqueak," Joey said impatiently. "It's almost noon already!"  
  
Outside, the sun was shining in a scintillatingly blue sky with nary a cloud in sight. Although still below freezing, the air temperature lacked the bitter edge it had possessed last night, and there was no wind to speak of.  
  
"What a difference a day makes hunh?" Robert Siri said. "It's beautiful out."  
  
"Indeed," Ian murmured, squinting at the blinding brilliance of the sunlight on the snow.  
  
"Dad, keys," Joseph Siri, Jr. said to his father, who obligingly handed them over.  
  
They headed toward the garage, the kids bounding ahead of the adults.  
  
"Snow angel!" Gina Marie yelled, making a detour to a patch of pristine snow beside the narrow path.  
  
Ian watched with interest as she fell backward into the deep snow and then spread-eagled her arms and legs. "Daddy, help me up!" she requested when she was done.  
  
He did, and Ian saw that the pattern she left behind did, in fact, resemble the outline of an angel, complete with flowing robes and outstretched wings -- a four-foot eight-inch angel.  
  
"Very nice, Sweetie," Robert told her, brushing snow from her small form.  
  
"Most impressive," Ian agreed when the grinning girl turned to him for approval.  
  
"You can do one later, Daddy," she said. "You, too, Ian. Oh, I forgot about your arm. That's all right. Yours will be a one-winged angel!"  
  
"Puh-leeze!" Joey opined from where he stood by the garage door. "Snow angels are for kids!"  
  
Robert stuck his tongue out at his son, whose back was to him as he unlocked the door, causing Gina Marie to giggle.  
  
"I will be right back. I need my sunglasses, which are in my car, and the keys are upstairs," Ian said, taking the stairs to the garage apartment two at a time. Once inside, he grabbed the keys to the SUV, but then hesitated, his gaze going to the shopping bag that contained his weapons harness. Crossing to it, he removed one of his Glocks and shoved it in his waistband in the front of his jeans. 'It never hurts to be prepared,' he thought, feeling better for being armed.  
  
Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a piercing scream from inside the garage had him reaching for the Glock. Heart pounding, he rushed inside.  
  
"A spider! I saw a spider!" Gina Marie whimpered, cowering against her father.  
  
"It's just cobwebs, silly! See?" Joey said, indicating the dusty, gossamer strands clinging to the bright-green plastic saucer he'd taken down from a hook on the wall.  
  
But the girl shook her head fearfully, refusing to touch it. "Daddy, could you wipe them off for me?"  
  
"Sure, baby," Robert said. He noticed Ian standing in the doorway. "She's afraid of spiders," he murmured, his gaze briefly flicking to the gun the other man still held in his gloved hand. "It only sounded like she was being attacked."  
  
Coloring, Ian hastily shoved the Glock back into his waistband and pulled his sweater down, concealing the weapon. Luckily, neither of the kids noticed his actions.  
  
When Joey handed the saucer to his father, Gina Marie scampered over to where Ian stood, watching anxiously as her father cleaned the cobwebs off. Her tiny, mittened hand came up to grasp Ian's large gloved one, and he squeezed it reassuringly.  
  
"There. All done," Robert declared. "No sign of spiders."  
  
Hesitantly, the 11-year-old took the saucer from him, holding it gingerly by one of its handles. "It's dusty. I better clean it off with some snow," she said, and headed outside.  
  
"They're all real dusty from lack of use," Joey commented, taking down a wooden sled with metal runners and handing it to his father. "We haven't had a good snowstorm like this in a couple of winters."  
  
"Yeah. This steering mechanism could use a shot of WD-40," Robert observed, wiping cobwebs from the runners. He grabbed a can off a nearby shelf and exited the garage.  
  
After retrieving his sunglasses from the SUV, Ian followed him outside, and watched as the older man sprayed the sled's rust-stained runners with an aerosol lubricant. A muffled yell was heard from within the garage, and moments later a wild-eyed Joseph Siri, Jr. came rushing out carrying another sled, which he immediately tossed onto the snow.  
  
"Gina Marie was right! There was a spider the size of Staten Island on the wall under my sled!" he breathed.  
  
"I knew it!" the girl said from where she knelt in the snow next to her saucer. "Did you kill it, Joey?"  
  
"Nah. I brought it out to show you!" he said, holding up a clenched fist. "Wanna see?" A wicked grin on his face, he slowly began to advance on his sister.  
  
Gina Marie held her ground, glaring at him. "You're lying. There's nothing in your hand," she said, but her gaze flicked toward his gloved hand fearfully.  
  
Joey shook his head. "Am not. It's big, black, and hairy." He lunged at her, and her nerve failed. She screamed and scrambled to her feet to dodge behind Ian, clutching the back of his coat in terror.  
  
"Daddy! Make him stop!" she wailed.  
  
"Joey, stop teasing your sister," Robert said, not even looking up from his task.  
  
The teenager cackled evilly. "Psych!" He opened his fist to show that it was empty. "You're such a scaredy-cat, Gina Marie!" he said scornfully.  
  
Scowling, his sister came out from behind Ian. "I'm telling Mommy you're being mean to me," she threatened.  
  
"Go ahead," her brother called her bluff, kneeling in the snow next to his sled.  
  
"Hmmm. Big, black, and hairy perfectly describes a wolf spider," Ian spoke up. "Very much like the one that is on the back of your hat, Joseph."  
  
The boy froze. "You're kidding me, right?" He stared at Ian, trying to gauge by the dark-haired man's expression whether or not he was being truthful. Unfortunately for him, the black wraparound sunglasses the former assassin now wore made his features even more inscrutable than usual.  
  
"Um, no, he's not, Joey," Robert said, staring wide-eyed at the back of his son's head. "Wow! Look at the size of that thing!"  
  
"Oh my God!" Gina Marie breathed. "Don't move, Joey!"  
  
"Somebody get it off me!" her brother said, his voice cracking with fear.  
  
"Hold still," Ian murmured, slowly moving toward the teen.  
  
"Hurry, Ian!" Gina Marie squeaked. "It's crawling toward his neck!"  
  
"GAH!!!" Joey tore his hat from his head and flung it to the snowy ground. "Did I get it? Did I get it?" he panted, frantically brushing at the back of his neck. Then he noticed that his sister was doubled over with laughter.  
  
"Omigod! That was great, Ian! We got him good!" the girl gasped when she could speak again. She high-fived a grinning Nottingham.  
  
"Ha, ha. Real funny," Joey muttered sullenly, picking up his knit hat. He threw an accusing look at his father, who wasn't even bothering to hide his own grin. "I can't believe you played along with them, Dad."  
  
"Turnabout is fair play, my boy," Robert said. "Catch," he tossed his son the can of lubricant.  
  
"Who's the scaredy-cat now, Joey?" Gina Marie chortled. "'Somebody get it off me!'" she mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "I can't wait to tell Aunt Sara about this!"  
  
Her brother grimaced. "Are you happy now, Ian? I may never live this down!" he pouted as he finished cleaning the cobwebs from his sled and gave the steering mechanism and runners a coating of WD-40.  
  
"Now maybe you will think twice about teasing your sister in this manner again," Ian murmured.  
  
"I sure will," he grumbled. "At least when you're around."  
  
"Daddy, could Ian come live with us?" Gina Marie asked her father, completely serious.  
  
Both Ian and Robert burst out laughing. Even Joey couldn't prevent a chuckle from escaping, his sense of humor, never absent for long, returning.  
  
"Okay, everybody, move closer together!" Paula Siri said, emerging from the main house, camera in hand.  
  
Ian began to edge away from the family members, but Gina Marie grabbed his hand. "That means you, too, Ian!" she declared.  
  
"That's right," Joey agreed. "And you might want to take off your hat so you can show off your cute new hairstyle while you're at it!" he smirked.  
  
Ian threw him a startled look. "I think not," he murmured, blushing in mortification.  
  
"The bright-pink fuzzy thingy on the end adds just the right touch," Robert chimed in.  
  
"Don't listen to them, Ian," Gina Marie said to him, giving his hand a little shake. "They're just jealous 'cause you look so handsome."  
  
"Okay, say 'cheese!'" Paula instructed.  
  
"Cheese!"  
  
The camera whirred. From that day forward, the resulting photograph always had the power to bring a smile to Ian's face as he recalled that the color visible in his cheeks had not been caused by the cold.  
  
The four of them set off for the park, which was normally a ten- minute walk from the Siri family's home; however, owing to the enormous snowfall and the fact that the majority of sidewalks had yet to be shoveled, it took them nearly half an hour to get there. As promised, Robert pulled his daughter all the way there on his sled, while Ian carried her snow saucer for her.  
  
There was quite a crowd in the park. People of all ages were taking advantage of the record snowfall and zooming down the modest-sized hill on sleds and toboggans. The high-pitched shrieks of children mingled with deeper shouts of adult laughter.  
  
"Uh-oh, snowboarders," Robert Siri murmured, nodding toward a group of eccentrically dressed youths who were carving swaths down the hill while standing sideways on wide, brightly colored boards that were approximately four feet in length from curved end to curved end. It sure looked like fun, Ian thought wistfully.  
  
"Cool!" Joey said, avidly watching them. "That's what I want for Christmas. A snowboard!" he said to nobody in particular.  
  
"I thought you wanted a mountain bike for Christmas," his father replied.  
  
"Grandpa Joe already said he's getting me a bike for my 17th birthday," the boy said absently. "Hey, there's my friend, Pete! Could you hold onto this for me for a few minutes, Ian? Thanks!" He handed the reins of his sled to Nottingham and took off, dashing across the hill to join the snowboarders, narrowly avoiding being hit by several sledders in the process.  
  
"Think you can resist the temptation?" Robert asked the younger man wryly, eying his son's sled.  
  
"We shall see," Ian murmured. He glanced down at Gina Marie Siri, and saw that she had produced a hand mirror from somewhere and was reapplying her lip gloss.  
  
"Ooooo, she's fancying herself up!" her father teased, noticing the same thing. "She must have noticed that Andrew Manucci is here."  
  
"Daaaad!" Gina Marie groaned, coloring, but she immediately cast a surreptitious glance up the hill. "Did you really spot him?"  
  
Robert chuckled. "I think that's him at the top of the hill to the left, wearing the green and blue jacket," he said, pointing.  
  
"Daddy, don't point!" his daughter hissed, grabbing his hand. She threw another quick look over her shoulder in the direction that he'd indicated. "Omigod, it is him. And I think I see my friend Vanessa. Is that Molly Kaplan she's talking to? It is! Molly's mom let her put magenta streaks in her hair, but I haven't seen how it looks yet," she confided to them. "If it looks cool, I'm gonna ask Mommy if I can get it done to my hair, too. Except I want purple streaks. I'm heading up. Bye!" Practically snatching her saucer from Ian's hand, she started trudging up the hill.  
  
"They grow up so fast," Robert sighed, shaking his head. "Well, I might as well get a couple of rides in. See you in a few." Dragging his sled behind him, he started up the hill.  
  
Minutes later, Ian watched enviously as the older man slid to a stop at the bottom of the snow-covered hill after an obviously exhilarating ride.  
  
'What harm could it do if I just took one quick ride on Joseph's sled?' Ian mused. 'Children younger than Gina Marie and seniors older than Joseph Siri, Sr. are sliding down the hill!' Seconds later, Sara contacted him telepathically, almost as if she sensed his wavering resolve.  
  
"Robert, I am returning to the house," Ian informed the older man as he made his way over to where Nottingham stood. "I dare not disobey Sara's edict, but I find it is far too tempting to simply stand around watching the action." Resolutely, he handed the reins of his son's sled to him.  
  
"Yeah, I sympathize with you. Normally, I'd say one ride couldn't hurt you, but the way these kids are flying down this hill, I'm not so sure!" Robert muttered, shading his eyes as he peered back up the slope. Gina Marie was getting ready to take her first ride down, and he wanted to keep an eye on her. "Plus, although Joey and me would never breathe a word of it if you did throw caution to the wind and take a ride, Gina Marie would probably spill the beans and then you'd really be in hot water with Sara."  
  
"Indeed," Ian agreed. 'Besides, I'd much rather be in bed with Sara than in hot water with her,' he thought to himself, his pulse rate speeding up at the thought of seeing her again. 'However, sharing a hot bath with her might be fun. A bubble bath. The sunken marble tub in the penthouse suite at the Argyle would do nicely. Hmmm.'  
  
"Here she comes!" Robert said, interrupting Ian's pleasant reverie. He beamed as he watched his daughter come zooming down the hill sitting cross-legged on her snow saucer.  
  
Ian couldn't help smiling at the ear-to-ear grin on the young girl's face as she sped over the snow. A squeal of excitement mingled with fear escaped her as the saucer hit a small bump and she briefly became airborne. But she landed smoothly, spinning around several times before coming to a stop several yards from them.  
  
"That was great!" she laughed, staggering dizzily through the well- trampled snow over to them. "I can't wait to get back up there and do it again!"  
  
"Ian's heading home. He says it's torture not being able to join in the fun," Robert told her.  
  
"Poor Ian," Gina Marie said, making a sympathetic face. "This hill is just okay, so you're not missing out on anything great."  
  
"Plus, you gotta keep an eye on those darn snowboarders who think they own the hill," her father murmured, frowning toward the unruly group of kids who had quickly commandeered the lion's share of the hill.  
  
Ian followed his gaze and spied Sara's nephew among the dozen or so young men and women who were recklessly racing each other down the hill on their garishly painted snowboards. Heavy-metal rock music blared from a boom box one of them had brought along. As they watched, Joey gleefully raced one of the other boys down the hill on a borrowed board, handily beating him despite the other youth's attempts to cut him off and knock him down. Ian had already witnessed several collisions and nasty spills, but the youngsters just laughed it off and immediately clambered back up the hill to do it all over again.  
  
"They're insane," Gina Marie opined. "You and Mommy aren't actually gonna get him a snowboard for Christmas, are you, Daddy?"  
  
"If that's what he really wants and he continues to get good grades, I'm afraid so," her father told her, clearly not thrilled by the prospect. "He's gonna have to wear a helmet, though. Well, I'm heading back up for another ride. We'll see you back at the house, Ian." Dragging both sleds behind him, he began the long trek back up the hill.  
  
"See you later, Ian," Gina Marie chirped, following in her father's tracks.  
  
"Later," Ian murmured, heading in the opposite direction.  
  
Twenty minutes later, he let himself into the side entrance to the Siri family's house, deliberately making noise as he removed his outerwear and boots so that he wouldn't startle Paula Siri.  
  
"Who's that?" she called from the living room.  
  
"Ian," he responded. "I decided to return earlier than the others." Putting the detested sling back on as he went, he padded down the hallway.  
  
Paula was curled up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. Soft music emanated from the stereo located in a handsome wooden corner unit on the other side of the large room. A fire was burning cheerily in the hearth, and Ian was once again struck by how inviting this house was. Like the elder Siris' home, it practically vibrated with love and warmth.  
  
"Too much temptation, hunh?" Paula inquired astutely.  
  
"Yes, and I missed Sara," Ian admitted softly.  
  
"She's asleep. I checked in on her a few minutes ago. Grab a cup of tea and sit a while," Paula invited him.  
  
"Thank you. I think I will," he accepted. He went back into the kitchen, poured hot water over a peppermint teabag, and then brought the mug back out to the living room. He took a seat on one of the comfortable wingchairs flanking the sofa, cupping his chilled hands around the warm mug.  
  
"Where did you grow up, Ian?" Paula asked him, leaning over to pick up a plate of cookies from the coffee table and offering them to him.  
  
"Thank you," he said, transferring his mug to his left hand and taking a couple. "I grew up in Westchester County in the village of Scarsdale."  
  
"That must have been nice. Robert and I considered buying a house in Nassau County, but we decided that the property taxes were too high. He wasn't crazy about the commute, either."  
  
"You have a lovely home here in Brooklyn," Ian murmured, taking a sip of his piping hot tea.  
  
"Thanks. It's hard to believe when you look at it today, but the place was a fixer upper when we bought it," she informed him. "Robbie, his dad, my dad, my brother Mike, and Jimmy Pezzini had to do a hell of a lot of work on it before it became inhabitable. We lived with my folks for a while until it was ready. I gave birth to Joey just two weeks after we moved in."  
  
"Sara's father worked on this house?"  
  
"Yeah, we bought it the year before he was killed. He was great with his hands. His father did carpentry in his spare time, and he taught Jimmy everything he knew," Paula told Ian. "He also pretty much redid the entire house he and Laney bought as newlyweds. Joe helped out, but it was mostly Jimmy."  
  
"You knew Sara's mother, Magdalene?"  
  
"Not very well. She was a lot older than me. But I remember her from family get-togethers and weddings and funerals, that sort of thing. I think we might have a picture or two of her and Jimmy that Robbie's parents took. Do you wanna see them?"  
  
"Yes, I would like that very much," Ian said.  
  
"Be right back." She disappeared upstairs.  
  
Ian's bond with Sara informed him that she was resting peacefully, her sleep too light to be disturbed by dreams, pleasant or otherwise. He itched to join her in bed, but he was curious to see the photographs of her deceased parents.  
  
"I think the pictures are in this album," Paula Siri said, returning. She retook her seat on the sofa, motioning to Ian to join her there, which he did. Opening the big, heavy, cloth-bound book, Paula began flipping through the laminated pages, providing the man next to her with tantalizing glimpses of the evolution and history of the Siri family.  
  
"Yeah, here's the one of them at Joanie's christening. Joanie is Robbie's youngest sister, and Jimmy and Laney were her godparents," she told Ian, showing him a picture of a much younger Joseph Siri, Sr. and Marie Siri in a church. Ian's eyes were drawn to the couple that stood next to Joseph and Marie. A slender, dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late 20s held an infant dressed in a long, lacy white gown in her arms as she smiled for the camera. The smartly dressed young man next to her was smiling, too, but his eyes were on his pretty wife rather than the photographer.  
  
"I think there's another one of them in here at a barbecue or something," Paula said, turning the pages. "Oh, here it is. That's right; it was Joanie's first birthday party. Joe and Marie held it in their backyard. That's Robbie and Anna Marie, Robbie's other sister, next to Laney and Jimmy."  
  
Once again, Magdalene Pezzini held her goddaughter in her arms and beamed for the camera. Her husband was grinning as he touched the bare, chubby foot of the tiny girl his wife held. They were seated at a picnic table along with several older children.  
  
"That's me, across from Robbie, and that's my brother Mike to my right," Paula said. "That's the only pictures we have of Sara's parents, but I'm pretty sure Joe and Marie have several more."  
  
"Thank you for showing them to me," Ian said. "I had never seen pictures of Sara's mother before, and I was curious to see what she looked like."  
  
"She was very pretty, don't you think? And Jimmy was madly in love with her. Such a tragedy that she died so young. Joe and Marie hoped he'd remarry, but Laney was his one and only love," Paula said softly, closing the photo album.  
  
"I can understand that," Ian murmured. "I knew Sara was the only one for me from the moment I laid eyes on her."  
  
"I'm a firm believer in love at first sight, too," his hostess said, smiling warmly. "Marie likes to joke that Robbie was smitten with me from the moment he saw me, which was when we were toddlers at the playground! Our mothers put us in the sandbox together, and the rest, as the saying goes, is history. We were high school sweethearts, and we both attended St. John's University. We decided to take a break during our sophomore year, you know, and date other people." Paula made a face. "But that didn't last long. I was miserable when I didn't see him for more than a couple of days, and he felt the same way. He popped the question a month after we graduated and I didn't even have to think twice."  
  
"I would love to ask Sara to marry me," Ian blurted out without thinking. "But I am not free to do so at this time."  
  
Paula nodded in understanding. "Sara told me that your father doesn't approve of her. Kenneth Irons is your father, isn't he?"  
  
Ian's startled eyes met hers. "How did you know? Did Sara tell you?"  
  
Paula shook her head. "No. I guessed. Don't worry; your secret is safe with me, Ian," she said, patting his leg reassuringly  
  
"I suppose you also know that Sara and I are hiding out here from my father."  
  
"Yeah, well, that story about you falling off a roof raised a lot more questions than it answered for me and Robbie," Paula said wryly. "We became really worried when we heard on the news that a female detective was missing at the scene of a drug bust and a firefight between unknown forces. We were afraid it was Sara, but nobody at the 11th Precinct would tell us anything. We were very relieved when they announced on the news that the female detective had been found safe and sound. But then later on, they mentioned that the heavily armed men the police captured at the burning warehouse were suspected of being part of the same group that was attacking your father's estate in Scarsdale. Next thing we know, you and Sara show up here, and you're badly injured." She shrugged. "I just put two and two together."  
  
"I defied my father to be with Sara," Ian admitted quietly. "But he will not tolerate my defiance for much longer. Nor will he ever give his consent for me to marry her."  
  
"You're a grown man, Ian. Surely, he can't stop you from marrying whoever you want to marry. Or are you afraid he'll cut you off from your inheritance?"  
  
Ian immediately shook his head. "I could care less about my inheritance. Sara and the ba-- . . . Sara is all I care about."  
  
"She also told me that she might be pregnant, Ian," Paula said gently. "I think you'll make a great father."  
  
"You do?" he asked wistfully. "I did not have the best role model in that respect." His expression became troubled. "My father is very . . . controlling. He is not used to being defied, and he will go to great lengths to force me to do his bidding." He hesitated. "I am afraid it is not safe for Sara and I to remain here much longer," he finally said slowly.  
  
"It's like that, is it?" Paula said, sipping her tea, apparently unruffled by the implied threat to her and her family.  
  
"Unfortunately, yes."  
  
"Hmmm. Tell me, what would your father do if you and Sara eloped?"  
  
"I am fairly certain he would find some way to annul the marriage. Money can buy just about anything, and that, as you know, is something my father has no shortage of. Besides, I seriously doubt I could convince Sara to elope with me. She does not love me," he said matter-of-factly.  
  
"Give her time, Ian. All of this is very new to her. She's just scared," she assured him, squeezing his arm comfortingly.  
  
"Unfortunately, time is something we have precious little of," Ian sighed. "My father will not take no for an answer where I am concerned, nor will he hesitate to take drastic measures to force me to return to the estate. I cannot conscience placing you and your family in harm's way. Therefore, Sara and I have decided to leave tomorrow morning. I am sorry to have to burden you with this, Paula. You and your husband have gone out of your way to make me feel as though I am a part of this family, and I will never forget your kindness for as long as I live."  
  
"Like it or not, you are a part of this family now, Ian. And between the two of you, I'm positive you'll figure out a way to be together. Besides, no matter how rich and powerful your father is, even he can't do anything about the weather!"  
  
"The street in front of the house will be plowed soon, and that means there will no longer be any obstacle stopping the men my father has undoubtedly sent to retrieve me from attempting to do so," Ian said, deciding to be blunt.  
  
"Granted, but I just heard on the news that another storm is headed this way. We could get another foot of snow by tomorrow night. If the city doesn't get around to plowing the street before then, you and Sara should still be safe here."  
  
Ian considered this latest development for a moment then regretfully shook his head. "No. It is too risky. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you or your family, Paula. Sara and I will leave tomorrow morning as planned."  
  
"But where will you go?"  
  
"It is best if you do not know our whereabouts, but we will call you to let you know we have reached our destination safely," he assured her.  
  
"Somebody sure needs to give your father a good talking to!" Paula scowled. "What the hell is his problem?"  
  
"They are too numerous and complicated to get into," Ian said wearily. "If I had a couple of weeks, I might be able to shed some light on the subject. Suffice it to say that 'dysfunctional' does not even begin to explain my family dynamic. Now," he rose, "I am going to join Sara for a short but pleasant nap before lunch. Thank you for the tea and cookies, as well as for showing me the photographs of Sara's parents, Paula."  
  
"You're most welcome, Ian. And remember what I said: Give Sara some time. She's never been in love before, so it'll take a while for her to come to her senses," Paula Siri said.  
  
"Now I know where young Joseph gets his wisdom from," Ian remarked softly, feeling his throat tighten with emotion at her calm certainty.  
  
Paula beamed. "Thanks for the complement. Enjoy your nap."  
  
Ian silently let himself into the darkened guest room a minute later. Sara lay curled up on her right side, clutching a pillow to her chest. Ian removed his sling and his navy blue cable-knit pullover, and, lifting the heavy cotton bedspread covering her, slid into the bed next to her.  
  
"What took you so long?" she muttered sleepily, stroking the arm he put around her.  
  
"I was learning how to snowboard," he said, pressing his lips to her ear.  
  
"Yeah, right," she grinned. A quiver went through her body as the tip of his tongue emerged to trace her ear and his hand slipped beneath her shirt to cup her right breast possessively. "Ian, we're supposed to be napping, remember?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Sorry," he murmured contritely, but his thumb began to stroke her nipple through her bra. "How is your headache?"  
  
"What headache?" she breathed, feeling a now-familiar ache begin to build way down low. "Um, my left breast is getting jealous."  
  
His throaty chuckle set her pulse racing. "We cannot have that." He gathered her closer to him, and she smiled to feel his arousal against her rump.  
  
'Awww, isn't that sweet,' she thought with feminine satisfaction, 'he's happy to see me!' But then she frowned. 'Really, really happy to see me!'  
  
"Uh, Ian?"  
  
"Yes, my love?"  
  
"Is that a gun I feel digging into my ass or did somebody slip you some extra-strength Viagra?"  
  
He froze. "My apologies," he said, easing away from her. Sheepishly, he removed the Glock from his waistband and set it on the night table.  
  
Sara turned over and looked at him. "You armed yourself to go sledding?"  
  
He shrugged self-consciously. "We might have been followed by my father's men. I felt it was prudent to be prepared for anything."  
  
"And here I was worried that these past few days of domestic bliss might make you lose your edge," she said, shaking her head. "Silly me."  
  
"Old habits die hard, Sara," he said softly, unable to meet her gaze. "And the fact of the matter is, we cannot remain here much longer."  
  
"What if you headed Irons off at the pass?" she said after a long moment of silence during which he felt her green eyes study his downcast features.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"What if you called him and promised to return to the estate after Thanksgiving? Do you think he'd leave us alone until then?"  
  
"I doubt it. If I were him, I would want to separate us as soon as possible. He knows that the longer we are together, the stronger our bond will grow."  
  
"But wouldn't he rather avoid a messy battle between you and his goons? I imagine he's already up to his ears in media attention after that debacle with the Russians."  
  
"You have a point. However, I believe he is willing to run the risk of garnering more negative publicity when it comes to me. He is desperate to regain the upper hand in our relationship."  
  
"I know you said we'd have more leverage if we could manage to wait until he's in desperate need of my blood in order to survive, but what if we decided not to wait until then? Promise him that you'll return to the estate after Thanksgiving, and in return for him agreeing to leave us alone until then, tell him that I'll supply him with a vial of my blood. If he refuses, tell him all bets are off; we'll fight whoever he sends to get you and I'll never willingly give him my blood."  
  
"He will never stop trying to regain control of me or the Witchblade, Sara. It is not in his nature to give up, especially where it concerns something he has been obsessed with nearly his entire life. But your plan just might buy us some needed time to decide how we can ultimately defeat him. By the way, Paula knows Kenneth Irons is my father."  
  
Sara's startled eyes met his. "How on earth did she figure that out?"  
  
"When you told her that my father does not approve of you, she put two and two together. She is a very intelligent woman, your sister-in-law. I also informed her of the potential threat to her and her family. She is aware of the fact that we are leaving first thing tomorrow morning, which I still think is wise even if my father agrees to leave us be until after the holiday."  
  
"You're just full of surprises this afternoon, aren't you?" Sara said. "What made you decide you could trust her?"  
  
He shrugged. "She is family," he said simply.  
  
Sara grinned at him, delighted by his response. "She is that. C'mere you," she opened her arms to him and he slid close to her again. Automatically, one of his hands started to work its way beneath her shirt, but she grabbed it, preventing his sensual assault. "Not that I didn't enjoy being groped by you earlier, but what do you say we just snuggle for a while, okay?"  
  
Ian sighed. "If you insist." But then he grinned. "Just think, a week ago, if you had said you simply wanted to snuggle, I would have been overjoyed," he mused, gathering her closer to him.  
  
Sara nodded. "And I'd have been cooling my heels for quite some time while you divested yourself of enough weapons to outfit a small army instead of removing a single Glock. Maybe you have gotten soft, Nottingham!" she teased him.  
  
"In more ways than one," he muttered. "But that is easily remedied!" He leered at her hopefully.  
  
"Forget it, Cowboy. We're practicing our cuddling skills until further notice."  
  
"Cuddling is good," he acquiesced with another sigh. "But wild monkey sex is so much better!"  
  
"I've created a monster!" Sara cried softly, unable to refrain from pressing a tender kiss to his smiling lips. His response to even this slight stimulus was instantaneous and just as swiftly evoked an answering response from her own body.  
  
"Oh, all right," she muttered, pulling her long-sleeved cotton thermal shirt over her head. "You can play with my tits if you must. But the bra stays on."  
  
"We shall see about that," Ian chuckled, turning his attention to her breasts. "Hello, my lovely ladies! Did you miss me?"  
  
More to come! As always, thanks so much for your immensely inspiring feedback. I so enjoy reading it, and it really does inspire me to keep going. Please, keep it coming! 


	53. Chapter 54

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters; Top Cow, TNT, et al, do. I'm just playing. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: WARNING!!! Sexually explicit scenes are contained in this chapter. This material is not suitable for anybody who has a problem with this or who is under the age of 17. If you fall into either of these categories, PLEASE READ NO FURTHER. You've been warned, so please don't report me to ff.net!  
  
Chapter 54  
  
Sara was all hot and bothered. Ian Nottingham had had the colossal nerve to leave her high but not even remotely dry.  
  
After thoroughly lavishing attention on her breasts for several extremely enjoyable minutes, he had abruptly opened his mouth wide in a jaw- cracking yawn.  
  
"You know what?" he muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face wearily. "You are right: a nap would do me a world of good." And to her amazement, he turned around, presenting his broad back to her, and lay his dark head on the other pillow.  
  
"You're kidding me, right?" Sara growled incredulously after a moment of stunned silence. To add insult to injury, she realized that, somewhere along the line, he had magically made her bra disappear. A furtive glance around the immediate vicinity confirmed that it was nowhere to be found.  
  
"Hmmm?" Ian murmured, already sounding drowsy, damn him!  
  
"You're not really gonna nap, are you, Nottingham?" Sara hated the pleading note that had crept into her voice. It sounded entirely too much like she was begging.  
  
Knowing she couldn't see his expression, Ian allowed himself to grin, and had to struggle to keep the laughter out of his voice. "Yes, I am. You may cuddle me if you wish."  
  
"I may cuddle you if I -- !?!" her words broke off with an audible snap of her teeth.  
  
Sara blinked in disbelief as she spotted her bra hanging from the doorknob of the closet across the room. It was still swaying gently from side to side. 'How the hell did he manage to do that without me noticing?' she wondered, fuming.  
  
Ian could sense the frustration and irritation radiating off her in waves. Schooling his features to sleepy innocence with an effort, he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Are we not supposed to be practicing our cuddling skills, Sara?"  
  
Sara glared at him, storm clouds on her brow, but then her expression relaxed into an appreciative grin as she detected the devilish gleam in his sparkling hazel eyes. "You had me going there for a minute!" she chuckled. "Silly me! I should have just done this."  
  
Ian was unable to stifle a groan as her hand slid up and over his hip to caress the prominent bulge in the front of his jeans.  
  
"Hmmm, does Mr. Hoody wanna come out and play?"  
  
"Yes, he does," Ian breathed, turning on his back so that she had easier access to his button fly.  
  
With agonizing slowness, Sara undid the buttons, never breaking contact with the tumescent flesh beneath the denim. Her other hand insinuated itself beneath his faded blue thermal cotton undershirt and began lazily drawing random designs on his abdomen, ribs, and chest.  
  
Ian raised a hand to her face, cupping it, his thumb brushing her lips, inciting her to lean down and press her mouth to his. Their tongues met in a hot dance of desire.  
  
Sara swallowed the gasp he emitted when her hand slid beneath the waistband of his boxers and closed around his hard sex. Her whole body tingled with anticipation of once again being joined with his, and suddenly she couldn't bear to have any barriers between them.  
  
"Hold that thought," she murmured, giving his erection a little pat. "Get naked with me, cowboy. Now!" she commanded, grabbing the hem of his shirt and helping him drag it up over his head.  
  
Their gyrations were comical as they hurriedly tried to divest themselves of their jeans and underwear while lying side by side on the bed. Sara burst into laughter when she heard the way the bedsprings were creaking madly even before they came together. She started deliberately bouncing on the bed as she shimmied out of her jeans, complicating Ian's efforts to do the same. When he realized what she was doing, his husky laugh mingled with hers, and then they were both bouncing around on the firm mattress like little kids on a sugar high.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey! What's going on up there?"  
  
They both froze at Paula Siri's shout from downstairs.  
  
"Um, nothing!" Sara yelled back, meeting Ian's wide hazel eyes.  
  
"Do I have to come up there and separate you two?" Paula called from where she stood at the bottom of the stairs, her amusement plain to hear in her voice.  
  
"Not yet," Ian shocked Sara by shouting back. "But give us a minute!"  
  
"Oh, you're so bad!" she admonished him before dissolving into laughter again.  
  
"Not as bad as I want to be," he grinned, shucking off his jeans and boxers and tossing them on the floor in a single motion.  
  
Sara's breath caught, her gaze hungrily devouring his elemental masculine beauty and rampant virility. Hands shaking, she finished removing her own jeans and sodden panties.  
  
"My God," Ian whispered, eyes glowing with barely contained desire as they slowly traveled over her nude body, "you are so incredibly beautiful. I could just eat you up!" With a playful growl, he pounced on her and started nibbling on her neck.  
  
Giggling uncontrollably, Sara squirmed beneath him. "Stop, stop, that tickles! I'm serious, Ian!" she gasped, grabbing his head in both hands. Smoldering green eyes met gem-bright hazel eyes, signaling that play was at an end. "Besides, that's not where I want you to nibble on me, cowboy!"  
  
With firm but gentle pressure, she began to guide his head south. Obligingly, Ian followed her direction, his hot tongue emerging to sample the riches of her body along the way.  
  
Sara frowned as she realized that his hair was still confined in that ridiculous French braid, and she quickly set about freeing it. By the time his lips reached the triangle of softly curling chestnut hair below her navel, his luxuriant sable mane was loose and waving around his face and shoulders.  
  
At the first touch of his scorching mouth against her nether lips, Sara gasped, her back arching. His long, gifted tongue emerged to swirl the entrance to her sex like it was an ice cream cone, lapping up the juices so freely flowing there.  
  
"Mmmmm, delectable," Ian murmured, deliberately drawing out the vibration against her throbbing clit.  
  
Soon, Sara was writhing helplessly beneath his ministrations, her head thrashing back and forth on the bed. "Please, oh, Ian, I can't . . . Don't stop! Yes! There, there, there!" she cried, her voice rising.  
  
Just as she was about to fly to pieces, Ian moved up the length of her body quick as a cat, and surged all the way into her with one powerful stroke. Sara's scream of ecstasy was almost but not quite muffled by him as he captured her lips with his. His chesty groan at the exquisitely pleasurable sensation of her hot, satiny sheath contracting powerfully around his aching hardness turned into a shout of completion as he climaxed seconds later.  
  
Downstairs, Paula Siri glanced up from her book and smiled approvingly.  
  
*****  
  
Some time later, Sara's stomach growled loudly, echoing with emptiness, and although she was loathe to abandon her lover's closeness and the cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets, hunger drove her to wakefulness.  
  
"Hungry," she mumbled, shoving at the slack weight of Nottingham's left arm, which, as usual, was draped around her slender frame. "Must get food. And pee."  
  
"You want pee?" Ian murmured sleepily. "I had heard that pregnant women get strange cravings, but that is a first."  
  
"Ha, ha, very funny," Sara said, pushing at his arm again. "But, seriously, Ian, I really gotta go, so let me up!"  
  
Yawning, Ian raised his arm, stretching it above his head. He was pleased when his shoulder didn't so much as twinge at the movement.  
  
Rising, Sara came around the bed and snatched up his cable-knit sweater from the floor. "This'll have to do in a pinch," she said, quickly pulling it over her head. "I hope I don't scandalize anybody."  
  
"I do not think there is any danger of that," Ian said wryly. The bulky garment came down to mid-thigh on her, completely camouflaging her curves. However, despite this and her sleep-creased face and wild hair, she still managed to look devastatingly sexy. 'Down boy,' he thought with a touch of exasperation as he felt his body begin to respond to the mere sight of her.  
  
"I'm gonna use the bathroom in the master bedroom. It's closer. Be right back," she said, opening the door to the guest room. She left it slightly ajar as she dashed into the room next door.  
  
Ian got up and snagged his boxers and jeans from the carpeted floor. Sara still hadn't returned by the time he'd pulled them on, so he headed down the hall to the kids' bathroom to answer his own call of nature, donning his undershirt as he went. He was thankful that the act of urinating caused his budding erection to subside. Ian was swiftly discovering that his body's spontaneous reaction to the delectable Sara Pezzini could be quite inconvenient, especially when the tightness of one's jeans left very little to the imagination. There were decided advantages to the loose-fitting, black wool trousers he normally favored.  
  
When he returned to the guest room, Sara was sitting on the disheveled bed regarding her damp panties distastefully. She had taken off his sweater and put on her bra.  
  
"I just can't bring myself to put these back on," she said, shaking her head. "I guess I'll just have to go au naturel beneath my jeans."  
  
"You did laundry did you not? Perhaps there is a clean pair of your underwear downstairs," Ian suggested.  
  
She beamed at him. "Clever you! I sure did. Could you do me a favor and run down and grab a pair outta the dryer for me?"  
  
"It would be my pleasure."  
  
"Here," Sara handed him the scrap of moist cotton. "Stuff these in the dirty clothes while you're at it. I still have another load to do after lunch." She glanced at the rumpled bedclothes. "Make that two loads."  
  
"I can start another load while I am down there," Ian told her, stuffing the hi-cut briefs into his back pocket.  
  
She stared at him in surprise. "You know how to do laundry, Ian?"  
  
"Yes. Ever since I watched you put the first load in this morning. And I am certain I can figure out how to operate the dryer." He tapped his temple. "Brainiac, remember?"  
  
"How could I forget?" Sara grinned. "Oh, by the way, you were utterly brilliant in bed a little while ago. For that, you get the coveted and elusive A+."  
  
He grinned, his chest visibly puffing up with pride. "I aim to please, my Lady."  
  
"Oh, you definitely did. However, I don't think I'll be able to look Paula in the eye. She must have heard us."  
  
Nottingham's smile faded and red tinged his bearded cheeks. "Undoubtedly."  
  
Sara shrugged. "Don't sweat it. We're both consenting adults, and she's no prude. Now, go get me another pair of undies before I wither away from hunger!"  
  
"Yes, Ma'am."  
  
She watched as he pulled on his sweater with a graceful economy of motion that inexplicably sent a warm quiver of desire through her body.  
  
"Wait a sec, you have a severe case of bed head," she said huskily when he turned to go. She hunted around the tangled sheets until she found the bright-pink hair band her niece had given him. "Come here and let me at least attempt to make it look like we napped instead of having wild, monkey sex."  
  
"We napped," Ian said, grinning again.  
  
"More like passed out from exhaustion," she said, her lips quirking in an answering grin.  
  
Clasping his hands behind his back, he came to stand before her, spreading his legs wide and bowing his tousled head so that she could reach it more easily. This stance was so achingly familiar, it paralyzed her for a moment and made emotion tighten her throat. How very much had changed since the last time he had assumed this submissive pose!  
  
Oblivious to the fact that she was naked from the waist down, Sara finger-combed his hair into a passing semblance of order. It took an almost superhuman effort for Ian to refrain from putting his arms around her sleek body and gathering her closer to him. As she worked, he watched her expression through the curling, gold-streaked locks of dark-chocolate hair that habitually escaped restraint. The way she worried at her full lower lip with small white teeth as she concentrated on her task sent a bolt of heat straight to his groin, and Ian closed his eyes against the tempting sight, biting back a groan. 'How can I want her again so soon?' he asked himself. 'No, not again,' he acknowledged ruefully, 'always.'  
  
After taming his wild, springy locks as best she could without the aid of a brush or a comb, Sara gathered Ian's long, incredibly soft hair in one hand and secured it at his nape with the hair fastener. In order to accomplish this, she was forced to put her arms around his neck, and she couldn't resist leaning against the tall, muscular frame that had swiftly become almost as familiar to her as her own body. His intoxicating scent filled her nostrils, making her legs go weak with wanting him again.  
  
Automatically, Ian's hands settled on her hips, subtly moving them against the marked swelling in the front of his jeans.  
  
"Oh, dear," Sara murmured. "Look what's come up again!" But then she shook her head as if to clear it, and forced herself to take a step back from him. "No, no, no! Must have nourishment! Quick, Nottingham, go now, or I won't be held responsible for my actions!"  
  
"If you insist," Ian grinned, immensely pleased to know that she reciprocated his desire. He gave her slim, nearly naked body one last lingering glance, and Sara imagined she could feel heat lick her wherever his burning gaze fell. Involuntarily, she swayed toward him and he toward her, and she found herself draped on him again, her arms around his neck.  
  
"Your mission, Ian," she breathed a tad desperately. "You mustn't lose sight of your mission."  
  
"My mission?" he murmured, bending his head so that his lips were scant millimeters from hers, his big hands cupping her derriere possessively.  
  
"Panties," she said, resolutely pulling away from him once again as her stomach gurgled insistently. "For the love of God, get the panties before me and mini-Ian starve to death."  
  
"I will be right back, my love," he sighed, forcing himself to turn and leave the room.  
  
Sara fell back onto the bed with a dreamy sigh as the door closed behind Nottingham. 'What's come over me?' she mused to herself, shivering a little as though from withdrawal. 'I'm like some kind of sex-crazed addict! You'd think I hadn't gotten any in years instead of less than an hour ago!' She looked at the bracelet on her wrist. 'I just bet you have something to do with this!' The blood-red stone was glowing happily, and Sara imagined she could feel a sort of smug warmth emanating from it. 'Yeah, uh-hunh, that's what I thought.'  
  
She put her right hand on her belly. 'Show me our baby again,' she commanded the Witchblade, and was immediately plunged into a vision.  
  
Sara lay on her back in a bed, much like she'd been only moments before, except now she found herself staring at the enormous mound of her stomach rising up in front of her. 'Wow,' she thought. 'I'm as big as a house!'  
  
The door to the bedroom opened, and Ian entered. Her eyes widened as she saw that he had a pajama-clad, dark-haired toddler on his hip. 'His very own Mini-Me,' she thought wryly, smiling at the sight.  
  
"Mama, Mama!" the small boy beamed, reaching for her.  
  
Sara levered herself upright with a mighty effort and leaned back against a pile of pillows before holding out her arms for her firstborn, who appeared to be somewhere between two and three years of age.  
  
"I explained to him that you were trying to rest, but he wanted to see for himself that you were all right before he went to bed," Ian said, handing her the toddler. "How are you feeling, Sara?" He eyed her huge belly warily, as though it were a bomb that could go off at any second.  
  
"Just peachy," she replied. "The contractions seem to have stopped. I guess it was a false alarm. Hello, handsome!" she smiled at her son. "Are you my big boy?"  
  
He nodded, dark ringlets bouncing. "Where da baby?" he asked in his sweet, high voice, gently patting her stomach. "Still in dere?"  
  
"Yes, your baby sister is still inside me. But she'll be here soon," Sara told him, planting a big wet kiss on his chubby cheek. He giggled, squirming. "Oh! She's kicking! Wanna feel?"  
  
The small boy nodded, and Sara placed his hand high up on her distended abdomen. "You, too, Daddy?" she invited Ian.  
  
Nearly identical expressions of delight and wonder came over the faces of the father and son as they felt the strong thuds. But Ian's smile turned into a frown as he felt her stomach harden beneath his hand and he saw the way she grimaced. It was then that present-day Sara realized she didn't actually feel the intense pain her future self was obviously experiencing, and for this she sent the Witchblade a mental thank-you.  
  
"Whew! That was the real deal," future Sara breathed when the powerful contraction passed. "I think you'd better call the doula and the midwife."  
  
"They are already on the way, my love," he told her.  
  
"That famous Protector's intuition at work again, eh?" she murmured, stroking their son's soft, dark curls as he snuggled against her. A brilliant sparkle caught her eye, and Sara saw that she wore a white gold or platinum engagement ring and wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand. 'Nice rock!' present-day Sara thought irreverently, eying the large, emerald-cut center stone, which was flanked by lovely, deep-green emerald baguettes. 'Really nice rock! I guess this means me and Nottingham get hitched.' An unexpected sense of satisfaction filled her at this realization.  
  
Ian shrugged. "You were very restless last night and moaning in your sleep. I decided that you were either in the early stages of labor, or would go into labor shortly, so I called Cheryl and Liz this morning and informed them that in all likelihood they would be hearing from us later today. Cheryl called me back a few minutes ago, and I told her to head on over. Then I called Liz and requested that she do the same."  
  
"Good thinking. I'd like to get into the birthing tub as soon as they get here. I've been having some wicked back pain on and off all day, and it'll probably get worse as things progress."  
  
"I will go prepare the tub. Is he okay with you?" Ian asked, indicating their son.  
  
"Yeah. I think he's falling asleep. Hey, little monkey, you sleeping?" she asked the drowsy boy.  
  
He shook his head. "No, I not seepy," he lisped, obviously struggling to keep heavy eyelids open.  
  
"We'll be fine," Sara smiled at Ian. "He'll be out by the time you come back. Hand me the phone before you go, and I'll call Marie and let her know it's showtime."  
  
"She, too, is en route. I called her as soon as I hung up with your doula."  
  
Future Sara eyed her husband suspiciously. "You're way too calm, Nottingham," she said. "I know you have nerves of steel and all, but you'd think this whole me-giving-birth thing was old hat." Suddenly, another contraction hit her, and she closed her eyes tight as she rode it out, remembering to breathe the way her doula had taught her to. When she opened them again, she glimpsed fear in her mate's beautiful eyes before he could hide it, and she realized that he was as nervous as she was about the impending birth.  
  
"That's more like it," she chuckled softly. "Go on and get the tub ready, my love. I'm itching to get in it!"  
  
Suddenly, the scene shifted, and Sara found her future self submersed from the waist down in a freestanding fiberglass tub. The pale dome of her belly just peeked above the wonderfully warm and soothing water.  
  
"Here comes another one," she gasped as a powerful contraction gripped her.  
  
"Remember to breathe, Sara," said a blond woman in her mid- to late 30s who sat to Sara's left, massaging her back beneath the water.  
  
Sara jumped as she felt something touch her between her legs beneath the water.  
  
"Relax, it's just me," said the graying, 50-ish woman who knelt at the foot of the tub. "Okay, you're fully dilated, Sara. You can start pushing with the next contraction."  
  
"Cheryl, she's still having a lot of back pain. I read that that sometimes indicates a breech birth," Ian said anxiously from where he sat cross-legged next to the tub to Sara's right. He held a cup of crushed ice, a few pieces of which he poured into his hand and offered to his laboring wife. Gratefully, she accepted and thirstily sucked on them.  
  
"Give me your hand, Ian," Cheryl said.  
  
Transferring the cup of ice to his left hand, Ian gave her his right.  
  
The midwife took it and guided it beneath the water and between Sara's legs.  
  
"Feel that?" she asked.  
  
He nodded.  
  
"That's your baby's head. She's in position and ready to make her entrance into the world, but first Sara's got to do some hard work. Ready?" she asked the mother-to-be, detecting the onset of another contraction.  
  
Sara nodded and grabbed hold of her knees. Ian gently applied pressure to her swollen belly as instructed by Liz, biting his lip as he watched his beloved strain to give birth to their child.  
  
"You're doing great, Sweetie," Cheryl smiled. "Two, maybe three more like that, and she'll be here. What are you going to name her again?"  
  
"Isabel Magdalene Nottingham," Sara panted. "Here comes another one!"  
  
"The head's out!" Cheryl crowed a minute later, peering into the murky water. "Another good push and you're done!"  
  
"So tired," Sara murmured, sagging against Ian's and the labor doula's supportive arms.  
  
"Just one more big push, my love," Ian whispered in her ear, "and then you'll be able to hold our daughter in your arms. You can do it!"  
  
Sara gave vent to a loud groan as another contraction gripped her, and with the last of her strength, she expelled the infant from her sore, aching body.  
  
"Here's your baby, Sara, grab him!" Cheryl said, lifting the squirming baby out of the water and placing it on the exhausted woman's chest, where it promptly took its first breath.  
  
Sara clutched the tiny slippery body to her breast, and smiled wearily when the baby opened one eye and squinted up at her, as if to say "What's all the commotion about?"  
  
"Wait a sec," she frowned as something the midwife had said dawned on her. "Did you say 'him'?"  
  
"Yep. Congratulations! You've got a healthy baby boy," Cheryl said, swiftly and efficiently clearing the baby's nostrils and mouth with a suction bulb. "Proud Daddy, do you want to cut the cord?"  
  
It took a moment for Ian to recover from his shock, and then he could only nod mutely in the affirmative. The midwife handed him a pair of scissors, and he cut the bluish-green and red umbilical cord.  
  
*Oh, isn't he beautiful?* Sara said privately after thoroughly examining the baby to make certain he had the requisite number of fingers and toes. *But how can this be, Ian?*  
  
*He's gorgeous, just like his mother. And I have absolutely no idea why the Witchblade allowed us to have another male offspring. I was certain this one would be a girl,* Ian replied, tears sparkling in his eyes as he stroked his newborn son's back. The infant rooted around Sara's chest and then promptly latched onto her left breast to enjoy his first meal. But after nursing for only a few minutes, he dozed off, apparently as wiped out from the ordeal of his birth as his mother was.  
  
"Okay, let's get this little guy cleaned up," Liz said, carefully swathing the baby in a towel before picking him up. Only then did the infant begin to cry, unhappy at being deprived of his mother's closeness and warmth. "Nice to meet you, too!" the doula laughed.  
  
"Another boy," Sara breathed, trembling from exhaustion. "We have another boy."  
  
"He's got nice strong lungs," the midwife commented as she examined the placenta. "Sonograms can fool even the most experienced technician. That's why you should always pick out a boy's name and a girl's name. You aren't the first parents to be surprised, and you certainly won't be the last."  
  
Sara exchanged a look with Ian and neglected to mention the fact that she hadn't had a sonogram. The blood-red stone in the intricate silver bracelet on her right wrist pulsed rhythmically for several seconds, and she could have sworn that It was laughing at Its bemused Wielder and her Protector.  
  
Then the vision abruptly released Sara. "Ha, ha, ha," she muttered, glaring at the Witchblade. "You're a real laugh riot." But she couldn't help but grin as she recalled the astonishing events of the extraordinarily vivid vision. "Thanks for that glimpse into the future, Witchy," she whispered.  
  
"One possible future," Ian said, and she looked up to see him standing in the doorway.  
  
"It showed you the vision, too?" she queried, but she had her answer when she saw the tears in his eyes.  
  
"Yes," he said softly, his glittering gaze filled with emotion. "I will do everything in my power to make that future a reality, Sara."  
  
"That's good to know," she said huskily, sitting up. "I suggest we start by coming clean about your former profession to my family and friends before Irons has a chance to. We've got to take the fight to him if we're gonna have any chance of successfully freeing you from his clutches."  
  
"Take the fight to him," Ian repeated slowly, closing the door behind him. "You have just given me an idea."  
  
"Tell me about it."  
  
Ian shook his head. "After lunch," he said, holding up his right hand. Dangling from his fingertips was a pair of her undies. "Mission accomplished," he grinned.  
  
More to come. I truly appreciate the feedback everybody has left me. It genuinely gives me encouragement and a great deal of pleasure to log onto my computer and see that somebody cared enough to write a review of my story. Please, keep it coming! 


	54. Chapter 55

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. They belong to Top Cow, TNT, etc.  
  
Chapter 55  
  
When Sara and Ian came downstairs a few minutes later, Paula Siri tactfully refrained from commenting on the passionate sounds she must have heard emanating from the guest room. She merely smiled and gave them the once-over with a knowing look.  
  
Sara immediately forgot to act embarrassed when she spotted the plate of sandwiches and containers of potato salad, coleslaw, and macaroni salad on the sideboard in the dining room. In addition to assorted condiments, there were also pickles, potato chips and corn chips.  
  
"Oooo, yummy!" she murmured, making a beeline for the food.  
  
"What would you like to drink? I've got soda, seltzer, lemonade, ice tea, and fruit punch," Paula asked them.  
  
"I will have lemonade, thank you," Ian said, taking a seat at the dining table.  
  
"Seltzer, please," Sara requested, rapidly loading up her paper plate. "Omigod, Paula, you made your famous chicken salad! You gotta try some, Ian. It's to die for!"  
  
Five minutes later, Robert, Gina Marie, and Joseph Siri, Jr. returned from their outing, ravenous and in high spirits.  
  
"So, did you guys have fun?" Sara asked around a mouthful of her chicken salad sandwich as the rest of the family joined them at the table.  
  
"Yeah," Joey said, sitting down and taking a bite of his own sandwich. "One of my buddies was there with his snowboard, and he let me take a few rides on it. It was awesome!"  
  
"I had fun, too," Gina Marie piped up. "My friends Vanessa and Molly were there. Mommy, Molly's mom let her get magenta streaks in her hair and it looks really, really cool. Could I get purple streaks in my hair? Pleeeaaaaase!"  
  
Paula looked dubious. "I want to see for myself what these streaks look like before I give you permission to get them. What do you say we invite Molly and her mom over for lunch tomorrow?" she suggested.  
  
"Cool!" her daughter beamed, but then wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. That means her little brother, Stevie, will probably come along, too. He's sooooo gross. If you dare him to eat a booger, he will!"  
  
"Okay, I could have done without that little tidbit while eating my lunch," her father said, shaking his head and grimacing.  
  
Joey laughed. "This I gotta see. How old is Stevie? Six? Seven?"  
  
"Six-and-a-half. He'll do it, Joey, I swear," Gina Marie told her brother. "Vanessa dared him to do it, and he did. And it wasn't even his own booger!"  
  
"Excellent!" Joey chortled.  
  
"Nobody's gonna dare Stevie Kaplan to do anything while he's here," Paula said firmly. "You got that, Joey?"  
  
Her son shrugged. "Whatever. Oh, and just so you know, no way is that little maniac getting his grubby hands on my collection of Matchbox cars again. Last time he was here, he kept bugging me to let him play with them, and when I finally gave in and let him, he went nuts and trashed them! He kept pretending they were all involved in a massive pileup on the interstate. He broke the doors off a couple of them and scratched up a bunch of others. This time, my room is off limits to him. I mean it."  
  
"Oh, come on, Joey!" Robert said. "You know very well that your collection wasn't exactly in mint condition to start with. Unlike mine. That kid isn't getting within ten feet of my Matchbox cars."  
  
"You still have that collection, Robbie?" Sara asked in surprise. "Something like ten years ago you told me you were gonna give them to Joey when he got older!"  
  
Her brother nodded. "Yeah, I still got my cars. And he will get them." He smirked. "After I die."  
  
Ian chose that moment to speak up. "These are toys you are referring to, are they not?" he queried curiously.  
  
Everybody stared at him.  
  
"Don't tell me you never had any Matchbox cars as a kid, Ian," Joey finally blurted out.  
  
Ian met Sara's gaze. *Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of my past,* he sent.  
  
*Yeah, you can gain their sympathy by telling them about your shitty childhood, and then casually mention the fact that you used to kill people for a living,* Sara replied sarcastically, and then immediately regretted it when she saw the way he winced. *I guess now is as good a time as any,* she acquiesced, sighing.  
  
"No, I never had Matchbox cars," Ian responded quietly to the teenaged boy. "In fact, the only toys I was allowed to have as a child were guns, knives, and swords. It was my father's way of grooming me for my eventual profession."  
  
"You mean as a bodyguard?" Gina Marie asked.  
  
"Yes." Ian took a deep breath. "And an assassin."  
  
Robert burst out laughing. "You're joking, right?" But his grin faded as he saw that Ian was completely serious. "No, you're not," he said faintly, perhaps recalling the earlier incident in the garage.  
  
"My father is a very wealthy and powerful man," Ian said, breaking the strained silence that had fallen over the dining room. "As such, he has a lot of enemies. From childhood, I was trained in several martial arts disciplines, earning advanced degrees in each by the time I was Joseph's age. Later on, I served in the Army's Special Forces and learned to expertly handle various deadly weapons. Using these skills at my father's behest, I have systematically and thoroughly eliminated any and all threats to his safety." He paused. "This is not something I am proud of. It is just a fact of life. My life. Very few people know that I am my father's son and heir. If they know about me at all, they believe I am simply his personal bodyguard and head of security. My father prefers it that way, and has never treated me as a son, even in private. He thinks of me as the perfect weapon whose foremost priority is insuring his continued wellbeing. And that is also how I thought of myself until I met Sara," Ian said, glancing at his beloved, who reached over and grasped his hand, silently sending him a wave of encouragement.  
  
"You mean you assassinated people?" Gina Marie Siri breathed, eyes round.  
  
"Yes, Princess," Ian said softly, "I did."  
  
"But they were bad people, right?" Joey said. "People who wanted to hurt you and your father."  
  
"If you are asking whether they were hardened criminals, Joseph, I would have to say, no, not all of them were," Ian admitted. "In fact, on the surface, many of them appeared to be respectable businessmen. Pillars of the community, even. But in reality, they were ruthless men who thought my father was an easy target. They learned the truth of the matter the hard way. I guess you could say I was just doing my duty by protecting my father from his enemies."  
  
"Define 'enemies,'" Robert Siri said slowly, obviously not liking what he was hearing.  
  
Ian shifted in his seat uneasily. "It is an unfortunate fact that my father's great wealth and notoriety make him the object of envy in the eyes of many. You might be surprised by just how uncivilized greed can make otherwise decent men. In addition, his corporation's work in genetics and other controversial fields have made him a target of hatred in certain circles. I can honestly say I have never moved against any of my father's adversaries until they moved against him first. After I disposed of the assassin or assassins that were sent to kill my father, I paid their employers a visit. Suffice it to say, they were no longer a threat to his safety after that."  
  
"You'd think that would deter anybody else from trying the same thing," Paula murmured, visibly shuddering.  
  
"Yes, one would think that," Ian agreed. "But, invariably, my father's enemies think they will be the one to succeed where the others have failed. And so it goes. But not anymore. My days as an assassin are over. Now, Sara's safety is of paramount importance to me." With that, Ian lowered his eyes to his and Sara's clasped hands and waited to see how these people he had come to care for very much would react to his confession.  
  
Nervously, Sara studied the faces of her family as they digested this startling information.  
  
"Why are you telling us this now?" Robert finally asked after several long, uncomfortable minutes had passed.  
  
"As I told your wife earlier, my father does not approve of my relationship with Sara and will do everything in his power to separate us, including attempting to alienate her family by divulging my past misdeeds. Sara and I decided to beat him to the punch."  
  
"You knew about this, Paula?" Robert asked his wife.  
  
She shook her head. "Not about the professional assassin part. I hazarded a guess as to who his father is, and he confirmed it."  
  
"Would your father happen to be Kenneth Irons, Ian?" Robert asked astutely.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Does this mean that you're a suspect in several unsolved murders?" Paula inquired bluntly.  
  
"No. My name was cleared when the homicide investigations failed to turn up any evidence that could have incriminated me."  
  
"But you're still a suspected murderer, right?" Robert persisted.  
  
"Technically, yes," Ian said, his unflinching gaze meeting the other man's.  
  
"And you're okay with this, Sara?" her brother queried, turning to her.  
  
"No, I'm not," Sara replied honestly. "But wishing Ian's life had turned out differently is a waste of time. We've decided to put his past behind us, and although we know it's a lot to ask of you all, we were really hoping you could do the same."  
  
"Ian, remember when I asked you why you look out for my Aunt Sara?" Joey suddenly inquired.  
  
"Yes, Joseph," Ian said, warning bells going off in his head, "I remember."  
  
"You said 'Because it's what I was born to do.' What did you mean by that?"  
  
Ian contrived to look thoughtful. "How should I put this?" he mused aloud, buying time. *We cannot tell them about the Witchblade, my Lady. To do so would be to place them in grave danger,* he sent to Sara.  
  
*They're already in danger, Ian. I don't see that we have much choice.*  
  
*And just who else were you planning to tell?*  
  
*My godparents, Danny, Vicky, and maybe Jake. I don't see any other way around it. If we're gonna make this relationship work, we have to tell my family and friends about the Witchblade, and that I'm Its Wielder and you're my Protector.*  
  
*Very well,* Ian said reluctantly. *But you'd better ask the Witchblade for permission first.*  
  
*You're joking, right?* Sara said, aware that her family was becoming restless as Ian's silence became drawn out.  
  
*No, I'm not. Divulging the Witchblade's existence is not something to be done lightly, Sara. You should request Its permission to do so before embarking on this path.*  
  
*And if It forbids me to reveal that I'm Its Wielder, what then?*  
  
*We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,* Ian told her. *In the meantime, I'll do my best to stall your family while you converse with the Witchblade.*  
  
*Uh, okay,* she murmured, taking a deep breath. *Here goes nothing.* Releasing Ian's hand, Sara touched the Witchblade's blood-red stone. 'Hello, Witchy?' she queried. 'Anybody home?'  
  
Abruptly, the stone flared to life, and Sara felt the familiar sensation of being drawn into a vision.  
  
She found herself standing in the living room of an achingly familiar house. It took only a moment for her to recognize her childhood home.  
  
"Daddy, Daddy, look at me!" A young girl's excited voice came floating down from upstairs, and Sara's heart clenched with pain in her chest as she saw her father come out of the kitchen to stand at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"Oh, Sweetheart, you look like an angel!" her father beamed. "Just like I knew you would."  
  
Sara watched her much-younger self bounce down the steps. "That's what Marie said," she grinned, revealing a gap where her front teeth should have been.  
  
'I remember this,' Sara thought with a pang. 'It was my First Communion. Marie is upstairs with Joanie and Anna Marie getting ready to go to the church. And Joe and Robbie are in the kitchen waiting on us.'  
  
"Family is very important to you, Sara," a voice said, and Sara turned to see a dark-haired woman sitting in her father's favorite chair.  
  
"Who are you?" she asked, noticing that the woman wore a suit of light armor over her toga-like dress, and that although not as strong as it had been with Elizabeth Bronte, she also bore a striking resemblance to Sara.  
  
"My name is Boudica, and long, long ago I, too, was a Wielder of the Digitablum Magae, or Witchblade," she replied. Back ramrod straight, head held high, Boudica possessed a distinctly regal air, and the circlet of hammered gold that rested upon her brow looked like it belonged there.  
  
"Uh, nice to meet you," Sara murmured, watching her younger self pirouette for her father, showing off the beautiful white gown, flowery headdress, and veil that she had worn for her First Communion. "I guess you're the one I have to ask permission from, hunh?"  
  
The other woman inclined her head a fraction. "Yes."  
  
"Um, is it okay if I tell my family and friends about you, I mean, about the Witchblade?" Sara asked, feeling more and more like a subject who had been granted an audience with the queen.  
  
Boudica tilted her head curiously. "Why is it so important to you that you tell them about Our existence, Wielder?"  
  
"Because they're my family and my closest friends, and because I don't think I'm strong enough to bear the burden of wielding the Witchblade alone," she whispered.  
  
"You are strong enough, or We would not have chosen you. And you are not alone. You have your Protector by your side." Boudica paused and then smiled with obvious satisfaction. "And in your bed. We are extremely pleased by this development, Wielder."  
  
"Uh, yeah. Right," Sara murmured, coloring. "Anyway, is it okay if I tell my family and my friends about you?"  
  
"It was never Our intention that Our chosen Wielder should bear the burden of wielding the Witchblade alone. That is why there are others who watch over you. They are the Watchers. Their duty is to provide guidance and counsel to the Wielder in times of peril," Boudica informed her.  
  
"Watchers? Who are they?" Sara asked, intrigued.  
  
The other woman smiled. "They will become known to you in time. For now, it is enough that you know they are watching over you."  
  
"That's great and all, but I still think my family and my friends deserve to know what's going on with me. Danny, for instance, is already beyond suspicious about the weird things that keep happening to me, like the way I zone out when you send me visions and how I make these crazy leaps of so-called intuition that help solve our increasingly bizarre cases. He's my partner and my best friend, and it's becoming harder and harder for me to keep lying to him. I think he can handle knowing the real deal. At least, I hope so."  
  
Her expression noncommittal, Boudica watched her. "The mantle of great power never rests easily on the shoulders of a True Wielder -- nor should it. It has crushed many a pretender who was foolish enough to lay claim to Us. But that will not stop those that lust after the power you now possess from trying to wrest it from you, Wielder. By choosing to reveal who and what you are to your friends and family, you may be endangering the lives of the very ones you profess to love. Are you absolutely sure you can you live with that?"  
  
Sara swallowed hard, her eyes going to her father and her past self. "My father chose to become a police officer," she said slowly, "because he genuinely loved to help people. A year or so before he was killed, we were at this party at my godparents' house, and somebody asked him why he did what he did even though he knew there was always a risk that he might not come home to me at the end of the day. To this day, I still wonder if he knew I was listening when he said 'Because it's my job, and I love it. I love being a cop. It's what I always wanted to be. What's more, I'm good at it. Damn good. I'd turn in my badge in a heartbeat if for one minute I didn't think I was making a difference. But I do. I plan on always being there for my little girl, but if something should happen to me, I trust she'd understand why I did what I did for a living.'" Sara smiled through the tears in her eyes. "I kinda think he did know I was listening, but he never let on."  
  
She looked at Boudica. "I love being a cop for the exact same reasons, and my father's responsible for that. He made me believe that I could make a difference by catching and putting away the bad guys. Now I come to find out that I'm the Wielder of the Witchblade, and that there are people out there who give a whole new meaning to the definition of 'bad guys.' My friends and family have always been a source of strength for me, and I gotta believe they'll support me even when they find out that now I'm some kind of superhero, or what have you. I need to know that I can count on their support. Besides, until Nottingham breaks free of Irons' control, who else can I really depend on?"  
  
Boudica nodded. "You have a point. Very well. You have Our permission to reveal Our existence and your identity as a True Wielder. But choose those whom you would share this knowledge with wisely, Wielder. Several of your predecessors failed to do so, and the price they paid was very, very high. Knowledge of Us is not something to be borne lightly, and there is no going back once you have chosen this path."  
  
"I understand," Sara said. She examined the other woman's appearance more closely. "So, what's your story?"  
  
"My story?"  
  
"Yeah. Who were you?"  
  
Boudica smiled again. "Ask the Mythkeeper. He will tell you all you need to know."  
  
"The Mythkeeper? Who the heck is that?"  
  
"He is already well known to you. You trust him implicitly, and have ever since you met him."  
  
"Is speaking in riddles a Witchblade prerequisite or something?" Sara exclaimed exasperatedly. "Geez!"  
  
"Farewell, Wielder," Boudica said, her form rapidly becoming insubstantial, and Sara felt the vision begin to release her. "Remember: choose wisely!"  
  
"Bye, Daddy," Sara whispered, taking one last look at her deceased father. James Pezzini was taking a picture of her younger self on the stairs, and his obvious pride in her brought fresh tears to Sara's eyes. "I love you." Between one eye-blink and the next, she found herself back in the dining room of her brother's house.  
  
"I love you, too, Sara," Ian said softly, and she realized that she had spoken aloud. *Don't worry; I realize you weren't talking to me,* he added privately, and his matter-of-fact tone unexpectedly filled her with sorrow.  
  
*How long was I out?* she asked.  
  
*Perhaps two minutes.*  
  
*That's all? It felt a lot longer. What have you been saying to stall them?*  
  
*I'll tell you later. What did the Witchblade say?*  
  
*It gave me permission to tell them about It, but warned me to choose who I decide to tell wisely. I hope I'm not making a big mistake,* Sara muttered anxiously.  
  
*It's your choice, my love,* Ian responded. *But I'll stand by whatever decision you make.* Raising a hand, he gently wiped the tears from her face. *I am always here for you, Sara. Never forget that.*  
  
Sara smiled tremulously at him. *I do love you, Ian Nottingham,* she said.  
  
The smile that came over his face at her words was like the sun rising after a long winter night, and it warmed her to her very soul.  
  
"Say it again," he whispered aloud.  
  
"I love you, Ian Nottingham," she said clearly, and then laughed giddily at the realization that it was true.  
  
"Again," he demanded, cupping her chin in his hand and leaning toward her so that his mouth was a hair's breadth from hers.  
  
"I love you," she breathed against his lips, and then they kissed, long and enthusiastically, only ending it when Robert pointedly cleared his throat.  
  
"You didn't actually answer Joey's question, Ian," he said.  
  
"Perhaps Sara should be the one to answer it," Ian replied.  
  
Sara took a deep breath. "Okay," she began, "what I'm about to tell you is gonna sound really, really fantastic. But first you have to swear to me on your lives that you won't tell anybody else about this. Do you swear?"  
  
Robert rolled his eyes. "Sara," he began impatiently, but she cut him off.  
  
"I'm totally serious, Robbie." She looked each member of her family in the eyes. "Swear to me. On your lives." Sara had to fight down a feeling of panic at the enormity of the step she was about to take. 'Please, God, let me be doing the right thing,' she implored to the heavens. Then she felt Ian's hand grasp hers, and the warmth of his love filled her with renewed confidence that the path she had chosen was, in fact, the right one.  
  
"We swear," the Siri family solemnly said in unison.  
  
More to come. Thanks, as always, for the wonderful feedback and reviews. They make my day and provide inspiration to keep going. I know I've said before that this story is in the home stretch, but now I mean it! But take heart, I smell a sequel! 


	55. Chapter 56

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter 56  
  
After dropping their second bombshell of the afternoon, Sara and Ian retreated to the laundry room in the basement, leaving the Siri family to come to terms with the startling revelation in privacy.  
  
"Well, that went well, don't you think?" Sara said brightly. Absently, she began to empty the washing machine, piling the wet laundry on top of the adjacent dryer.  
  
"As well as can be expected," Ian replied, opening the dryer and taking out the still-warm clothing, which he placed in a laundry basket. "It is a lot for them to take in. I noticed that the children seemed less overwhelmed by the news than their parents."  
  
"That doesn't surprise me. Both Joey and Gina Marie have good heads on their shoulders. Besides, Joey already looked up to both of us like we were some kind of superheroes, so finding out that we really are didn't come as a complete shock to him. I'll admit I was a little worried that Gina Marie might be too young to handle the truth, but she's wise beyond her years. I think our secret's safe with her."  
  
"I tend to agree. She swore an oath, and she takes that very seriously."  
  
Sara studied her Protector's pensive features. "I'm sure you noticed that Robbie wasn't exactly thrilled to learn about your past," she said quietly.  
  
"As the son of a police officer, I did not expect him to be. I very much doubt his father is going to take the news well either," Ian murmured.  
  
"Tell me about it. But the person I'm most worried about is Danny. You'll probably have to prove to him that you're not bad to the bone before he'll warm up to you, even after I tell him about the Witchblade and your role as my Protector," Sara said, grimacing. She was definitely not looking forward to that conversation.  
  
Ian met her eyes, and she clearly saw the regret in his. "I apologize for putting you in this position, my Lady."  
  
"As far as I'm concerned, you have nothing to apologize for, Ian," Sara said firmly, tossing the wet laundry into the dryer and starting it. "It's not your fault you were raised by a monster who trained you to be an assassin. If anyone's to blame, it's dear old dad. He's got a hell of a lot to answer for. That reminds me, you said you had an idea about how we can take the fight to him. Care to share it with me?"  
  
"It is really rather simple: Instead of passively waiting to be attacked by the men he has undoubtedly sent to persuade me to return to the estate, I think we should go there and confront my father," Ian said, putting a load of sheets into the washing machine after perusing the care label.  
  
"That would certainly be the last thing he'd expect us to do," Sara said. "But your plan will only work if we have the element of surprise in our favor. Otherwise, we'll be sure to find a welcoming committee waiting for us," she pointed out.  
  
Ian flashed her a wolfish grin. "One of the advantages of being head of security for my father is that I am intimately acquainted with the estate's security system, having designed and installed it myself. I know of a way we can get into the mansion undetected," he told her, pouring a capful of detergent into the washing machine and starting the wash cycle.  
  
"Then I say we pay Kenny a visit tomorrow morning," Sara grinned, tickled by the sight of the big bad former assassin doing laundry.  
  
"There is just one thing we must take precautions against once we gain entry to the mansion," Ian said.  
  
"Oh, yeah? What's that?"  
  
He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "As I told you before, my fellow Black Dragons and I were subjected to experimental drugs meant to enhance our intelligence, strength, and obedience. However, my father decided to take no chances on the drugs being enough to ensure our loyalty to him. He ordered the doctors to devise a fail-safe, something that would serve to incapacitate us should the drugs fail to adequately control us," he told her.  
  
"What kind of fail-safe?" Sara inquired with some trepidation.  
  
"I am susceptible to seizures when exposed to certain stimuli, such as strobe lights. My father equipped several of the mansion's rooms with such lights. Just in case," Ian replied, bitterness coating his words.  
  
"That bastard!" Sara said with feeling. "How did you find out about this fail-safe?"  
  
"It was put to the test on all of the Dragons. Repeatedly. While extremely unpleasant, the seizures do not cause any permanent damage; however, they were highly effective in rendering us unconscious for several minutes."  
  
"And how did you find out that your father had rigged the estate with the lights?"  
  
"A few years ago, I was installing a panic button feature in my father's study when I discovered some wires that should not have been there. I traced them to a control panel hidden in the arm of his favorite chair, and from there, back to some cleverly disguised strobe lights in the ceiling," Ian murmured. "Upon further investigation, I discovered a similar setup in several other rooms in the mansion, as well as in his office at Vorschlag Industries."  
  
"Did you confront him with what you found?"  
  
"No," he said softly. "I realized immediately that he had to have known that I would discover the wires when I informed him that I was installing the panic button. He wanted me to know about it."  
  
"Just another way of mindfucking you, hunh? Oooo, I'm so gonna enjoy kicking his ass!" Sara growled. "But first things first; how do we prevent this fail-safe device from knocking you out?"  
  
"That is where you come in, my love. You will have to be my eyes and ears during the confrontation."  
  
She gave him a puzzled look. "Okay, the eyes part I get, but why would I also need to be your ears?"  
  
Again, Ian hesitated. "In addition to the strobe lights, I also discovered the existence of an audio system that emits high-frequency sound waves. As you have noticed, my hearing is enhanced. Even at low decibels, high-frequency sounds are excruciatingly painful to me. My father will not hesitate to assault me with both lights and sound in an effort to subdue me. Earplugs will alleviate the problem, but I will essentially be deaf as well as blind until one of us can disable the fail-safe system," he told her.  
  
"So, you're saying we'll have to communicate telepathically once we get inside the mansion."  
  
"Yes. However, if at all possible, I would like to keep this ability a secret from my father for as long as possible. I will need you to tell me what he is saying and doing before he activates the fail-safe so that I can act as though I can see and hear him."  
  
"He's bound to notice the blindfold you'll be wearing, Ian," Sara pointed out.  
  
Ian shook his head. "I will be wearing my sunglasses. The lenses are specially designed to filter out the spectrum of light that can cause me to have seizures. As an added precaution, however, I will tape my eyelids shut. The sunglasses can be easily dislodged in a battle, if it comes to that."  
  
"Let's hope it doesn't." Sara studied her Protector curiously. "Can I ask you something, Ian?"  
  
"You can ask me anything, my love," he replied, hiding the uneasiness he felt at her query.  
  
"You said you and the other Black Dragons were subjected to experimental drug therapies while in the Special Forces. Is that what caused your hearing and vision to become heightened? I'd think that once you stopped taking the drugs, your, um, powers would gradually disappear, but that doesn't seem to have happened. Come to think of it, you also move faster than any human being I've ever seen, and your recuperative powers are phenomenal. Why is that?"  
  
Ian took a ragged breath. He had known this moment was coming, but now that it was at hand, he had to struggle not to give in to the panic that filled him at the thought of divulging his secret to her. Ian was terribly afraid that Sara would look at him with disgust once she knew the truth, and he wasn't sure if he could handle that.  
  
Sara waited patiently for Ian's answer, aware of the tension that had filled him at her question.  
  
"Wait!" she said as he opened his mouth to speak. "I just want to let you know that nothing you say will change the fact that I love you, Ian Nottingham. Nothing."  
  
Some of the tension dissipated from his body at her words, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "It does my heart good to hear that, my love," he said quietly, "because, try as I might, I cannot quite convince myself that you will not once again look at me like I am some kind of freak once I tell you the truth about myself."  
  
"Especially since it was not all that long ago that I hurt you by using the same exact term, hunh?" she murmured perceptively. Sara closed the distance between them and put her arms around him. Chin on his chest, she gazed up into his fearful eyes. "I know you said there was nothing to apologize for when I told you how sorry I was about that, but that's not true. You wouldn't be so nervous now if it were. So, please believe me when I tell you that I deeply regret calling you a freak, Ian. I'm no longer that person, and you're no longer my psycho stalker. You're my Protector and the man I love, and absolutely nothing you reveal about yourself can change that. I promise."  
  
Hot tears rolled down his cheeks to splash on her upturned face. "I want to believe you, Sara, but I am afraid," he whispered. "I think it would destroy me if I saw loathing in your eyes once again when you looked upon me."  
  
"You won't, I promise," Sara strove to reassure him. "You're stuck with me. At least until Witchy here decides to up and leave me, that is," she said wryly, holding up her right wrist. "So, spill."  
  
"Even were the Witchblade to abandon you tomorrow, I would still be yours, Sara. I belong to you, and will until the end of my days."  
  
"I'll bet you say that to all the Wielders," she grinned, hugging him tightly.  
  
Ian took a deep, cleansing breath, mustering up his courage. "Starting when I was very young, my father allowed me to be used as a lab rat for top-secret experimental procedures that dealt with genetic reengineering. A team of geneticists performed the operations under Dr. Immo's supervision. My DNA was altered at the genetic level, making me far stronger and faster than normal human beings. All five of my senses were also enhanced. And, as you noted, my recuperative powers are extraordinary," he said in a rush, and then waited anxiously for her reaction.  
  
Sara digested this information for a minute. "Is that all?" she finally said. "I thought you were gonna tell me something really crazy, like, like that you're really an extraterrestrial or, even worse, a Britney Spears fan!"  
  
"Who is Britney Spears?"  
  
"The incarnation of pure evil," Sara responded, but then shook her head. "Just kidding. For some ungodly reason, she's an immensely popular pop star. Seriously, Ian, I'm glad you decided to come clean about your superpowers, and I'm okay with it," she told him, patting him reassuringly on the chest.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Do I seem freaked out?"  
  
"No."  
  
"However, I'll admit it's a little scary knowing that kind of thing is possible." She frowned as a frightening thought struck her. "Was this genetic reengineering done to just you, or are all of the surviving Black Dragons supersoldiers, too?"  
  
"As far as I know, I am unique. My father told me that none of the other test subjects survived the procedures. Frankly, Dr. Immo does not know why I alone survived. As it was, I nearly died once or twice," he murmured, obviously unhappy memories shadowing his expressive eyes.  
  
Wetting her thumb, Sara gently wiped away the tracks of his tears. "Were the operations very painful?" she asked him softly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"My poor, poor baby." 'Kenny gets a kick in the nuts for that. Make that two kicks, one with each foot,' she thought to herself, controlling her fury at the billionaire's monstrous cruelty with an effort.  
  
"I am actually grateful for what was done to me," Ian surprised her by saying, "because now I can be a better Protector to you. For that alone, the suffering was worth it."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't agree with you," Sara said huskily. "I hate the thought of what you went through, and at your so-called father's behest no less. You were his son, for Christ's sake! What kind of father subjects their son to experimental genetic manipulation? And as if that wasn't bad enough, he signed you up for the Black Dragon project knowing you'd be subjected to experimental drug therapies! No, Ian, the price you paid was way too high for my peace of mind."  
  
"If it means I can keep you and our children safe, I say it was worth it," Ian reiterated.  
  
Sara placed a hand on her belly. "I wonder what effect, if any, these genetic enhancements will have on our babies? Will they inherit your superpowers? Are we gonna end up raising Superboys?"  
  
Now Ian frowned. "I must admit I had not thought of that. Perhaps Dr. Immo will be able to answer that question."  
  
"Assuming he survived the missile attack that took down that helicopter. Is there anyone else who might know the answer?"  
  
"Perhaps one of the geneticists who collaborated on the project," he responded. "I will endeavor to contact one of them in the event that Dr. Immo is no longer be available."  
  
"If he is alive, could I please beat him up, too?" Sara asked, only half-joking. "The way I see it, he deserves to pay for his part in this."  
  
*You're a vengeance-minded little thing, aren't you?* Ian sent, amusement tingeing his "voice."  
  
*Who you callin' little?* Sara scowled, jabbing him in the stomach with her fist.  
  
"Ow!" Ian said aloud, rubbing the spot.  
  
Sara pretended she was going to punch him again, and smirked as he flinched. *Wimp!*  
  
*Seriously, Sara, you're stronger than you realize. I may be bleeding internally,* he said, wincing and hunching over.  
  
"Oh my God, Ian, I'm so sorry! I didn't think I hit you that hard!" Sara said aloud, alarmed.  
  
*Gotcha!* he grinned, wagging a finger in her face.  
  
"Oh, you faker!" Sara went to smack him upside the head but he nonchalantly blocked the blow. Her eyes widened. "I'm gonna give you such a pinch!"  
  
"Try it," he taunted. "I dare you."  
  
"Okay, the gloves are off. Just remember, you asked for it," Sara said, her hand darting out, but he casually deflected it. In fact, try as she might, she could not lay a finger on him.  
  
It amazed and infuriated her that no matter what she tried, he always managed to counter her attack. As she became more and more frustrated, she went from attempting to pinch him to seriously trying to slap, punch, and kick him, all with an equal lack of success.  
  
"Okay, I give up!" she panted after several minutes of this.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked, the picture of composure. "I know how much you hate to lose."  
  
"Oh, was that a contest?"  
  
"Of course. It was the 'watch Sara try and hit Ian again' contest. And you lost."  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, this isn't over, Nottingham. Not by a long shot. I'm a very patient woman. You will get pinched. But only when you least expect it," she promised.  
  
"We shall see," he grinned.  
  
Sara could not help but grin back at him. Keeping her arms at her sides, she stood on her tiptoes and offered him her lips. "Kiss me, you fool," she whispered.  
  
Ian gladly obliged, and then yelped as he felt a sharp pinch on his ass.  
  
"You never even saw that coming, did you?" Sara laughed up at him.  
  
"You do not play fair, my Lady," he pouted.  
  
"All's fair in love and war, cowboy!" she said, rubbing the abused cheek gently.  
  
"I would much rather make love than war," he breathed, bending his head. They kissed again.  
  
"What say you we repair to the garage apartment?" Ian suggested long, scorching minutes later.  
  
"Yeah, I guess it wouldn't be a good idea for you to fuck me on the washing machine," Sara murmured, heart racing with desire.  
  
*On the contrary, it's an excellent idea,* he sent with a grin. *Just not while your family is upstairs getting used to the idea that we're superheroes instead of simply a homicide detective and her boyfriend who also happens to be a former assassin and the son of a megalomaniacal billionaire.*  
  
*Life: stranger than fiction,* Sara said with an answering grin. *Let's go, my love.*  
  
More to come. Thanks, everybody, for your wonderfully encouraging feedback! Keep it coming! 


	56. Chapter 57

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having a lot of fun with them. Enjoy!  
  
Author's note: WARNING: This chapter contains sexual situations and explicit language. You've been warned, so please don't report me to ff.net! Also, I apologize to my faithful readers for the long wait between chapters. Lately, real life has had the nerve to keep intruding on the creative process! And now, without further ado . . .  
  
Chapter 57.  
  
By tacit agreement, Ian Nottingham and Sara Pezzini put aside thoughts of the looming confrontation with Kenneth Irons and concentrated on enjoying each other. This time around, their lovemaking was a leisurely, drawn-out affair, as if they had all the time in the world to strengthen their bond instead of just hours.  
  
Sara was pleased to discover that not only was Ian an extremely considerate lover, he was also an adventurous one. It was as though a dam had burst inside of him, releasing years of pent-up need and allowing a deeply sensual side of his personality to blossom in the warm, nourishing light of her love. Nearly two decades of conditioning to ignore his sex drive and hold himself inviolate evaporated like mist on a hot summer day, and secure in her welcoming embrace, he was at last able to give free rein to his sensuality. Eschewing the traditional missionary position for a slightly more inventive one, he worshipped Sara with his body, bringing her to the pinnacle of ecstasy with exquisite thoroughness, not once, but twice, before attaining his own release and breathlessly collapsing on top of her, his energy temporarily depleted and every muscle in his big body relaxed.  
  
As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Sara threaded her fingers through Ian's sweat-soaked curls and gently massaged his scalp. She found that she enjoyed these fleeting moments when both of them were at their most vulnerable, when they were simply a man and a woman in love rather than Protector and Wielder. It never ceased to amaze her that her slender frame could bear his considerable weight, even though she knew she was far stronger than she looked. She also found it refreshing that Ian held absolutely nothing back from her, despite years of repressive training to the contrary. His unabashed enjoyment of the act of lovemaking in turn freed her to shed her habitual reserve, and for perhaps the first time in her life, she relinquished complete control of her body to another person, allowing him to bring her to never-before-experienced heights of pleasure.  
  
For his part, Ian still found it hard to believe that the woman he loved returned his affection. It thrilled him that Sara seemed more than willing to allow him to take some erotic liberties in bed. Here, there were no barriers between them, whether physical or emotional. Her complete trust in him at once filled him with tenderness and a burning desire to give her more pleasure than she had ever known. She communicated her likes and dislikes to him with subtle movements and facial expressions, and he stored away this knowledge like a dragon hoarding treasure. As his familiarity with her lithe body grew, so did his confidence in his own sexual prowess. He loved to watch her face as she climaxed, to hear her cries of ecstasy, and to feel her body shiver and clench against and around his. It had become a matter of pride for him to bring her to release more than once before he allowed himself to climax, and such was his control over his body that he nearly always succeeded in this objective. In Sara's arms, Ian was a man made whole, and it reinforced his determination to break the ties that bound him to his father/master so that he could truly put his past behind him and forge a future with her.  
  
When Ian made an effort to move to one side of her a few moments later, Sara tightened the muscles of her legs, which were wrapped around his narrow hips, keeping him where he was.  
  
"I am too heavy," he protested, raising his head to look down at her.  
  
"No, you're not," she denied. "At least, not yet."  
  
"My sweet Sara," he breathed, lifting a hand to trace the bold line of her dark eyebrows. "Making love with you just keeps getting better and better, if that is possible."  
  
"And just think, we haven't even tried more than a couple of the positions on those kinky bronze doors I noticed at the estate," she grinned.  
  
"Ah, yes, the infamous Kama Sutra," he murmured, smiling crookedly. "When I was growing up, I would study those doors whenever I got the chance. Even though I was too young at first to understand what was being depicted, I intuitively sensed it was something I should commit to memory."  
  
"Is that so? And here I thought you were just being creative!" Sara teased him.  
  
Color flooded his cheeks, and he lowered his eyes bashfully. "I am glad you liked it," he whispered.  
  
"More like loved it, Cowboy. Feel free to demonstrate something else from your repertoire the next time around."  
  
"Your wish is my command, my Lady."  
  
"Okay, I'm starting to have trouble breathing," Sara wheezed, giving him a little shove. "You can get off me now."  
  
Ian moved to one side of her, drawing her with him, so that their union remained intact.  
  
"Why do you call me 'Cowboy'?" he asked curiously, smoothing damp hair back from her flushed and perspiring face.  
  
Sara shrugged one slender shoulder. "Dunno."  
  
"Do I remind you of a cowboy?"  
  
"Nope. Does it bother you? 'Cause I could come up with something else."  
  
"For instance?"  
  
"Snookums, or maybe Babycakes," she replied, keeping her face straight with an effort.  
  
Ian grimaced. "Cowboy is fine."  
  
"He sure is!" Sara grinned, pressing her lips to his, only to break off the kiss with a chuckle a moment later.  
  
"What?" Ian smiled, amused by her obvious amusement.  
  
"I just remembered something funny you said the first time we made love," she told him. "You asked if it bothered me that you're not circumcised."  
  
"What is so funny about that?"  
  
"What would you have done if I'd said yes?"  
  
He blinked. "Good question. I have absolutely no idea."  
  
"What made you think it would bother me in the first place?"  
  
Now Ian shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. "When I was in the Special Forces, several of my fellow brothers-in-arms made fun of the fact that I was uncircumcised. They claimed women did not like it. In fact, Hector Mobius and I were the only ones who were not circumcised. However, nobody dared to tease him about it," he told her.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because Moby was Top Dragon, the biggest, strongest, and smartest among us. Plus, even back then, he had a sense of dignity about him that all of us instinctively respected."  
  
"How old were you when you joined the Special Forces, Ian?"  
  
"Twenty-one. All of us were roughly the same age, but everyone claimed to have had a lot of sexual experience -- except for me, of course. 'Virgin' was practically stamped on my forehead," he said wryly, his hand drawing lazy circles on her bare skin.  
  
"I'll bet that made you the butt of a lot of jokes, too."  
  
"Yes. Moby deflected the worst of it. He took me under his wing, even though I was awkward and antisocial, having never had a friend before. Moby told me to ignore what the others said, confiding in me that none of his girlfriends had ever objected to him being uncircumcised. But I never forgot what the other Dragons claimed was true. So, when you appeared taken aback by the sight of me that first time, I immediately assumed that was the reason."  
  
"I was just stunned by the size of your, um, equipment. It's quite impressive," Sara grinned, wiggling her hips a little.  
  
"And becoming more so as we speak!" Ian groaned. "How can this be? I thought I was spent."  
  
"I guess you better think again," she purred. "Saddle up, Cowboy!"  
  
****  
  
Much later, Sara awoke to find herself alone in bed. The garage apartment was dark and silent, and when she reached over to where Ian had lain, there was not even a hint of warmth, indicating that he'd been gone for some time. But she sensed that he was nearby. Raising her head, she glanced at the glowing bedside clock and saw that it was a few minutes before 5:00 p.m. A faint scraping sound from outside caught her attention. After indulging in a good, long stretch, she flung off the covers, got up, and padded naked over to the bedroom window that overlooked the driveway. Peering through the curtains, she spied Ian and Joey shoveling the driveway by the light of the motion-sensitive floodlights located above the entrance to the two-car garage. Ian immediately glanced up toward the window.  
  
*Did you have a good nap, my love?* he sent.  
  
*Yeah, I slept like a log. I didn't even hear you get up and get dressed to go out,* she told him.  
  
*So, I take it you don't remember me telling you I was going outside to help shovel the driveway?* Ian said dryly.  
  
*Did you really? What did I say when you told me that?*  
  
*"Have fun, Honey Bear," and then you pulled the covers up over your head.*  
  
*'Honey Bear!?!' That right there should've clued you in to the fact that I wasn't exactly conscious,* Sara chuckled. *I'm gonna take a quick shower, and then I'll come help you guys shovel.*  
  
*Okay, but I'm fairly certain your nephew will abandon us as soon as you show up. He's not enjoying this task at all, if his nonstop grumbling is any indication. In fact, he's already attempted to get out of doing it twice, first by starting to build a snowman, and then by attacking me with snowballs. After his father came outside and yelled at him, he grudgingly returned to shoveling,* Ian told her. *Actually, the second time he yelled at both of us. Naturally, I was forced to defend myself against Joseph's unprovoked attack, and Robert was forced to intervene in the interest of progress.*  
  
Sara laughed as she headed into the bathroom. *Naturally. It's okay if Joey bails. He shouldn't have to do extra work on our behalf anyway.*  
  
*I'm not sure your brother would agree. I think he'll be relieved to see us -- correction, me -- depart tomorrow,* Ian said wistfully.  
  
*Give him time, Ian,* she told him, turning on the shower. *He'll warm up to you again.*  
  
*The sound of he and your nephew shoveling is what awakened me. I decided to get dressed and offer to help, completely forgetting that I'm still supposed to be helpless because of my shoulder. Robert didn't forget. Now I'm pretty sure he thinks I've been faking the severity of my injuries.*  
  
*Oops!* Sara said, chagrined for him. *I guess we'll have to explain to him that you heal really, really fast.*  
  
*I attempted to do just that, but Robert just handed me his shovel and went inside.*  
  
*Well, he can't be too freaked out if he yelled at you for goofing off,* Sara pointed out, getting beneath the warm spray.  
  
*True. I just wish . . .*  
  
*Go on," Sara prompted gently.  
  
*I just wish I was someone you could be proud of,* Ian said plaintively.  
  
*Oh, baby, I am proud of you,* Sara instantly responded. *I'm proud of the way you stood up to Irons and helped me out. That took a hell of a lot of courage. Plus, I'm convinced that Joey wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for you, and when I tell Robbie that, he'll get over himself real fast.*  
  
*Please, Sara, don't try to make it seem like I'm some kind of hero. All I did was help you think things through. You did most of the work apprehending the Medina brothers yourself.*  
  
*So not true. You were the one who persuaded Alonzo Brown to help us -- and without resorting to more violence, I might add. And let's not forget how you infiltrated Angel's new drug den and put Detective Tommy Fuller back in touch with his unit, most likely saving his life in the process. Plus, you were the one who came up with the idea of getting Gabriel to help us warn Joey about the danger he was in. All while you were half out of your mind with fever!* Sara pointed out. *That's pretty heroic stuff, Nottingham.*  
  
*Then how come I don't feel like a hero?* he murmured.  
  
*Maybe because you've been made to feel worthless for most of your life?* she suggested. *Good only for killing people who obviously believed they had a damned good reason for trying to murder your heartless bastard of a father in the first place.*  
  
*That still doesn't change the fact that I assassinated them,* Ian pointed out. *That's not something the son of a retired cop can easily forgive or forget.*  
  
*But that's all in the past now, my love. You're my Protector, and that's how you'll be remembered by those who matter,* Sara maintained. *You fight for the good guys now. And pretty soon you'll have a son of your own, and you'll make him proud of you, too.*  
  
*Thank you for believing in me, Sara,* Ian said, his "voice" tight with emotion. *I guess it's high time I started believing in myself, hunh?*  
  
*Amen to that,* Sara smiled. *I'll be out in five minutes.*  
  
*Take your time. There's still plenty of driveway to shovel,* he said.  
  
*Ask Joey if Robbie is still making lasagna for dinner,* she bade him as she toweled herself off.  
  
*Hungry again already?* Amusement colored his tone. *Why am I not surprised?*  
  
*What did I tell you about making fun of my appetite?* Sara warned him.  
  
*Right.* There was a brief pause. *Good news: Dinner is still on.*  
  
*Oh, goody!*  
  
*Um, Sara,* Ian said hesitantly, *do you really think I'll be welcome at your brother's table?*  
  
*No way am I missing out on Robbie's lasagna, Nottingham, so you're just gonna have to deal with his pissy attitude,* Sara said firmly, rummaging through a pillowcase of freshly laundered clothes for a pair of clean underwear.  
  
*I was thinking maybe we could get the food to go and eat it here. That way the two of us could have a nice quiet dinner on our last night together for who knows how long,* he said persuasively.  
  
*Hmmm, that's a very tempting idea,* she mused. *But Robbie is too polite to suggest such a thing and I'll be damned if I will. I'm not ashamed of your past, Ian, and you shouldn't be either. If you start acting like you are, it'll just snowball, and you and Robbie will never come to an understanding.*  
  
*But I am ashamed, Sara,* Ian admitted. *And your brother has every right to disapprove of me.*  
  
*He disapproves of your past actions, Ian, not you. There's a big difference,* she pointed out, pulling on and tying her boots. *Once he gets to know you better -- the real you -- he'll come around. I promise.*  
  
Nottingham heaved a mental sigh. *Very well.*  
  
*Ready or not, here I come!* Sara said, zipping up her coat and putting on her gloves and hat.  
  
Outside, it was a clear, cold night. Sara glanced skyward, searching for signs of the next snowstorm that Ian had mentioned was supposedly headed their way, but there was nary a cloud in sight, just a faint dusting of stars.  
  
*Beware, Sara!* Ian sent. *Joey hears you coming, and he's got ammunition ready.*  
  
*Thanks for the warning!* Sara said. *I think I'll use this opportunity to put on a little demonstration.*  
  
As she rounded the corner of the garage, three icy missiles flew toward her supposedly unsuspecting person in rapid succession. In an eye- blink, Sara willed the Witchblade into gauntlet form and casually used it deflect the snowballs away from her.  
  
"Wow!" her nephew gaped. "That was awesome! Does it come with a bottle opener, too?"  
  
"Yeah," Sara laughed, "but no shovel. Got an extra one?"  
  
"Wait a sec, are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is that red stone really glowing?" Joey breathed, eyes wide.  
  
"Yep. It's checking you out," she replied, noticing that the gauntlet's blood-red "eye" did indeed appear to be regarding the youth curiously.  
  
The teenager held up gloved hands defensively. "I'm a friend, Oh Mighty Witchblade. I was just fooling around. I wouldn't even think of hurting your wielder. Especially, with her muscle around," he said, glancing at Ian with a sly grin.  
  
"Sara's muscle, eh? Funny how that did not stop you from attacking me earlier," Ian remarked.  
  
The boy shrugged. "You were fair game back then. But now that Sara's here, you're in Protector mode. Even I know better than to mess with you now," he explained.  
  
"Smart boy," Sara observed. "Why don't you take a break, kiddo? Tell your dad that I've taken over your snow shoveling duties until dinner is ready."  
  
To her and Ian's surprise, Joey shook his head. "Spell Ian for a while. He's been flexing his shoulder like it's starting to bother him."  
  
"I am fine," Ian swiftly denied, mentally kicking himself for forgetting just how observant the teenager was.  
  
"You would say that," Sara frowned, studying her Protector critically for signs of discomfort but finding none.  
  
He stiffened indignantly as she approached him. "I said I am fine," he repeated.  
  
"Let's just let the Witchblade be the judge of that, shall we?" She raised her armor-clad right hand and gently laid it on his left shoulder. The contact amplified her link with him, allowing her to clearly sense how his labors had irritated the muscles in his damaged shoulder.  
  
"Just some minor discomfort. Nothing I cannot handle," Ian said gruffly, not bothering to hide his irritation at her unwanted solicitousness.  
  
"Hit the showers, Nottingham," Sara said, her expression brooking no argument. "That's an order."  
  
Without another word, he handed his shovel to her and stalked off toward the stairs to the garage apartment.  
  
"What?" Sara demanded as she noticed that Joey was shaking his head in disapproval.  
  
"Somebody's pissed off," he observed.  
  
"He'll get over it," she shrugged. "Thanks for the heads up."  
  
"No problem. My dad tried to warn him that he shouldn't be doing this kind of work so soon, but Ian insisted he was well enough to help out."  
  
"The way Ian tells it, your father wouldn't listen to him when he tried to explain about how fast he heals. Now Ian's convinced your dad believes he was faking the severity of his injuries," Sara said, flinging her first shovelful of snow aside.  
  
"Oh really? And when did you get the chance to discuss this with Ian?" Joey asked, eying her askance.  
  
"Uh, well," Sara mumbled, cursing herself for her carelessness, "you see, it's like this--"  
  
"You guys can communicate telepathically, can't you?" her nephew interrupted her. "That is beyond cool!"  
  
Sara stared at him. "Why am I not surprised you figured it out so fast?" she murmured. "What, aside from my little blunder, gave it away?" She couldn't help but wonder if she and Ian had a prayer of keeping their telepathic ability from Irons if a 16-year-old kid had figured it out so easily.  
  
"Well, about 20 minutes ago, I noticed Ian look up toward the apartment's bedroom window. I couldn't see you standing there, but he got this look on his face that said he knew you were awake. I watched his expression out the corner of my eye, and it quickly became pretty obvious that either he was having one hell of a conversation with himself, or he was talking to you silently. He warned you about my sneak attack, didn't he?" Joey inquired.  
  
"Yeah, he did. Listen, Joey," Sara said earnestly, "we'd prefer it if you kept this to yourself."  
  
"Why? So my mom and dad won't figure out that you guys cheated at cards last night?"  
  
Sara felt her face grow red. "Um, there's that, but, more importantly, don't you think they have enough to chew on right now? It'll be our little secret, okay?"  
  
The teenager shrugged. "Whatever. But don't you think you're being a little overprotective with Ian?" he surprised her by saying.  
  
"Hey, you're the one who pointed out that he might be overdoing it!" she protested.  
  
"I only suggested that you spell him for a while, but you sent him to the showers like he was a pitcher who'd run out of gas and you were his manager. It's like you don't trust him to know his own limits."  
  
"Um, aren't you forgetting that your own dad, who just so happens to be an expert when it comes to injuries like his, advised Ian not to do any shoveling?"  
  
"Yeah, but Dad doesn't know how fast Ian heals. Ian was right about him not giving him the chance to explain. He's still weirded out by what Ian told us, plus he was annoyed Ian ignored his advice and insisted on helping out." Joey shrugged. "Dad can be kind of touchy about that sort of thing."  
  
Sara snorted. "Hello? I grew up with him, remember? Anyway, I was only looking out for Ian's best interests," she said, controlling her irritation at having to explain herself.  
  
"Yeah, but you treated him like he's a child. And it wasn't the first time. I felt bad for the guy when you were all like 'don't even think about taking a ride down that hill, mister!' when I invited you guys to go sledding," Joey said, making her squirm as he uncannily imitated her autocratic tone. "And before that, you dictated how long he could stay in the snowball fight -- right after he started totally thrashing you, I might add."  
  
"Okay, okay, so maybe I am a little overprotective of him," Sara exclaimed defensively. "I just don't want him to have a setback. He may end up having to fight a bunch of bad guys tomorrow, and he can't do that with a bum wing."  
  
Ian's disgruntled voice suddenly sounded inside her head. *I'm not a child, Sara, and I would appreciate it if you didn't treat me like one.*  
  
*What!?!* Sara responded, startled.  
  
*Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about,* Ian growled. *Yes, my shoulder was bothering me, but you could have trusted me to know when I'd had enough. I am an adult, you know. I know my limits.*  
  
"He's chewing you out, isn't he?" Joey said, noticing the distracted and chagrined look on his aunt's face.  
  
"Right again," she confirmed shortly. *Are you done, Nottingham?*  
  
*Uh, yeah,* he muttered, "I believe I am. I just had to get that off my chest.*  
  
*Well, I apologize for treating you like a child,* Sara said, sensing his surprise at her contrite response. *You're right; I should have let you be the judge of when you'd had enough. In my own defense, I can only say it was the Witchblade's fault! Darn thing makes me beyond overprotective of my Protector!*  
  
Ian's amusement vibrated along their bond. *Is that so? Well, I guess It was only looking out for Its own best interests. A Protector with a bad shoulder wouldn't be much good at doing his job.*  
  
*True. I'll make you a deal; I'll dial back the overprotectiveness if you keep it real by occasionally reminding me that you're a big boy and can take care of yourself.*  
  
*Deal. I'll admit that the first couple of times this tendency showed itself, I was touched by your concern. But this last time, not so much.*  
  
*Again, I plead innocent due to temporary Witchblade insanity. How's the shoulder? Forget I asked that!* Sara added quickly.  
  
Ian's psychic chuckle caressed her mind. *It's fine. A little sore. Nothing a hot shower won't fix. Or maybe an icepack. I forget which is better for muscle strain: heat or cold. Could you ask your brother which treatment he suggests I try?* Ian requested.  
  
*Like most people, there's nothing Robbie likes better than saying "I told you so." Why don't you go ask him yourself? I can practically guarantee that will help you get back in his good graces.*  
  
Now Ian's sigh gusted along their telepathic connection. *Very well.*  
  
*Oh, by the way, Joey figured out that we can communicate telepathically. It seems someone's facial expressions gave him away while we were talking earlier.*  
  
*Oops! I'll have to remember that when we confront my father.*  
  
*I'll say.*  
  
Ian descended the stairs, and Sara turned to watch him head toward the main house, but first he detoured to where she stood. Bending his head, he pressed his warm lips to her chilled ones.  
  
"Wish me luck, my love," he whispered, and turning, headed toward the house.  
  
*Good luck!* she sent.  
  
"Awww, you guys kissed and made up," Joey said, smirking. "How'd that crow taste?"  
  
"Shut up, Mr. Smart Alec!" Sara growled, flinging a shovelful of snow at him.  
  
"Oh, no, you did not just start with me!" her nephew yelled, nimbly dodging it.  
  
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, Joey, I'm sorry," she tried to placate him with as he scooped up a heaping mound of the icy white stuff on his own shovel and began to advance on her. "Ian, help!" she cried.  
  
"Sorry. You're on your own," he said, not even bothering to look back.  
  
"Some Protector you are!" she called, miffed, and then shrieked as Joey flung the snow at her head, nearly scoring a direct hit.  
  
"Goddammit!" Robert Siri growled, flinging open the side door to the house just as Ian reached it. "How many times do I have to tell him to quit fooling around!" He flinched as he came face to face with the tall former assassin. "Oh, it's you."  
  
"Yes. I have come to ask your advice," Ian told him.  
  
"Hold on a sec. JOEY!" he bellowed. "QUIT FOOLING AROUND!!!"  
  
"Aunt Sara started it!" the boy said sulkily.  
  
"I don't care! Get back to work!"  
  
"Yeah, get back to work!" Sara smirked, holding a shovelful of snow at the ready just in case.  
  
"You better pray you finish your side of the driveway before I finish mine," Ian overheard her nephew mutter as he resumed shoveling.  
  
"Come on in, Ian," Robert said, stepping back from the doorway.  
  
Ian entered the coatroom, automatically wiping his boots on the mat in front of the door. A delicious scent permeated the house, and he felt his mouth water.  
  
"Something smells great," Ian commented.  
  
"What was it you wanted to ask me about?" Robert said, ignoring his remark.  
  
"My shoulder is really starting to bother me, but I cannot remember whether heat or cold is better for treating muscle strain," Ian told him.  
  
"I find that hard to believe, especially since you admitted earlier that this wasn't your first dislocation," the older man said coldly.  
  
"Be that as it may, it is the truth," Ian replied. "I have dislocated my left shoulder four times, and my right shoulder three times. The first time was the worst. I fell out of a tree when I was about your daughter's age, dislocating my left shoulder. The genetic enhancements that have been done to me had yet to kick in, so my recovery time was the normal six to eight weeks. After that, I did not suffer a dislocation until I was your son's age. I displeased my father, and as punishment, he dislocated both my shoulders and fractured both my arms. By this time, my recuperative powers had taken hold. I completely recovered within a month. My recovery would have been much faster, except my father forbid the doctors to set the fractures or relocate the joints for several days. In fact, both my arms had to be re-broken so that the bones could be set properly.  
  
"I suffered a dislocation of both shoulders for the second time during a training mission while in the Special Forces. My parachute failed to deploy properly, and I was forced to break my fall with a tree. In addition to the dislocated shoulders, I suffered a broken pelvis, a fractured femur, and internal injuries. This time, I made a full recovery within three weeks. I dislocated my right shoulder for the third time during hand-to-hand combat with six assassins that had been sent to kill my father. However, I was able to immediately pop the joint back in and continue fighting. Recovery time in that instance was less than two weeks. That was six years ago.  
  
"This last time, I was blown off the roof of a six-story warehouse by a stinger missile, falling nearly five stories before I managed to grab hold of the last rung of a metal ladder that was attached to the side of the building. That is when I dislocated my left shoulder. My left clavicle may have been fractured when I was forced to do a shoulder roll after my right leg, which had been grazed by a bullet, gave out upon landing, but it could have happened when I was thrown against the rooftop parapet by the force of the explosion, or perhaps when I slammed into the side of the building after I grabbed hold of the ladder. That, I am fairly certain, is when I fractured two ribs and cracked three more. Sara was kind enough to relocate my shoulder joint, but as we were fleeing both the Russian commandos my father arranged to have ambush me and the members of the joint narcotics/DEA task force who were also on the scene because of the drug bust that took place across the street, she was unable to do so for almost half an hour."  
  
Robert Siri's face blanched as the litany of injuries went on and on. His dark eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and horror in his pale face at what he was hearing. Ian's penetrating hazel gaze never left his, not even for an instant, and his matter-of-fact tone never changed. He could have been discussing the weather or the best way to prepare marinara sauce.  
  
"Granted, you might find it odd that I can recall precisely how and when I was injured each time but not the best method for treating muscle strains," Ian continued. "In my defense, I can only say that the injuries themselves and the circumstances in which I received them are much more memorable than the treatment that followed."  
  
"Actually, that makes perfect sense," Robert said faintly.  
  
"So, should I treat the strain with heat or cold?" Ian prompted quietly.  
  
"C-cold. L-let me f-fix up an icepack for you," Robert stammered nervously.  
  
"Thank you, but I can prepare one myself."  
  
"It's no bother at all."  
  
Ian remained in the coat room while his host filled a zip-lock bag with ice cubes.  
  
"Leave it on for at least half an hour or as long as you can stand it. That should keep the swelling down," the older man said, handing the bag to him. "Do you have any ace bandages with you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good. Use them to hold the pack in place," he told him.  
  
"Will do. Thanks for the advice, Robert." Ian turned to go.  
  
"Oh, Ian!"  
  
Nottingham turned back inquiringly.  
  
"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour."  
  
"Thank you again, Robert. For everything," Ian said.  
  
"Any time."  
  
Ian felt the other man's eyes on him as he headed back toward the garage apartment.  
  
*So, how'd it go?* Sara asked, pausing in her shoveling as she spotted Ian returning. *You guys talked for quite a while.*  
  
*I did most of the talking. I'm mildly ashamed to say I played the sympathy card by sharing my long and storied history of shoulder dislocations with your brother,* Ian admitted. *I'm pretty sure I shocked the hell out of him, too.*  
  
*Um, forgive me if I don't ever ask you to share that same info with me,* Sara said wryly. *When it comes to that part of your past, I get the distinct feeling ignorance is bliss.*  
  
*You would be right,* Ian murmured. *Well, I'm going to take a shower and then apply ice to my shoulder.* He held up the icepack. *See? Robert even made up an icepack for me.*  
  
*What'd I tell you? You're in like Flint, Nottingham,* Sara grinned.  
  
*Not quite, but it's a start. Oh, you'll be thrilled to know that he told me dinner should be ready in half an hour.*  
  
*Yay! I can practically taste Robbie's lasagna already! And we should be nearly done shoveling by then, too. As an added bonus, I'm getting a really good workout!*  
  
*I'm glad you're enjoying it. How on earth did you get Joseph to stop complaining?* Ian asked, noticing that the boy was grimly but industriously clearing his side of the driveway.  
  
*Easy. He's determined to finish his side first so he can be free to try and pelt the crap outta me with snowballs without fear of interruption. Little does he know that I'm gonna hightail it outta here within 20 minutes whether or not I'm done with my side! Oh, and thanks for coming to my rescue before,* Sara said.  
  
*I heard Joseph. You started it. Sometimes, you just have to reap what you snow,* he smirked, taking the steps to the apartment two at a time. *Get it? Reap what you 'snow.'*  
  
*You're a real comedian, Nottingham, you know that?*  
  
*I try. Meet you at the main house in half an hour?*  
  
*See you there, my love.*  
  
More to come. Thanks ever so much for all of your always encouraging feedback. Please find it in your hearts to keep it coming! 


	57. Chapter 58

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just having fun. Enjoy! Oh, and Happy New Year! May 2004 bring good health, happiness, and prosperity to you all! Peace.  
  
Chapter 58  
  
Laughing breathlessly after her mad dash to the main house, Sara turned and smirked at her nephew from the safety of the doorway to the coatroom.  
  
"No fair!" Joey grumbled, reluctantly dropping the enormous snowball he'd hastily assembled as he ran after his fleeing aunt. "You didn't finish shoveling your side of the driveway!"  
  
"It's dinnertime!" she grinned. "I'll finish up after we eat. You're welcome to help me. Or you could volunteer to do the rest?"  
  
"Yeah, right," the teen shot back, joining her in the coatroom. "Okay, so you outfoxed me. This time."  
  
"You're darn right I did."  
  
"Hey, Sara," Paula said, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Um, I have some bad news."  
  
"Uh-oh, I don't like the sound of that." Sara shrugged out of her down jacket and hung it up. "Please don't tell me Robbie burned the lasagna!" she said, worriedly sniffing the air. To her relief, nothing smelled burnt. In fact, the mouthwatering scent that permeated the house primed her already ravenous appetite.  
  
"No. It's much, much worse." Paula glanced over her shoulder and then lowered her voice. "He invited Joe and Marie over for dinner, and they're on their way!"  
  
Sara stared at her sister-in-law in horror. "B-but the street hasn't even been p-plowed!" she stuttered. "How are they gonna get here?"  
  
"Believe it or not, they're walking over. They're only five blocks away, remember?" Paula reminded her.  
  
"Grandpa and Grandma are on their way over here?" Joey said. "Cool! I'll go meet them halfway!" Zipping his coat back up, he bounded back outside.  
  
"Damn!" Sara muttered, "I knew Robbie was pissed off, but why in God's name would he do something like this? I better go warn Ian."  
  
"Warn me about what?" Ian questioned, opening the outer door and entering the coatroom. "And where did Joseph go running off to?" He shrugged out of his overcoat, and Sara saw that the icepack was ace- bandaged to his left shoulder.  
  
"Robbie invited Joe and Marie over for dinner," she said dully. "Joey went to meet them halfway. They'll be here any minute."  
  
A look akin to panic actually crossed her Protector's face and his hazel eyes grew wide. "We could hide in the garage apartment. They need never know we are here," he blurted out.  
  
But Paula shook her head. "Too late. Robbie already told them you're both here. I'll bet Marie practically volunteered to shovel a path here when she heard that," she said ruefully. "Nothing short of another blizzard could stop her now."  
  
"Ian, maybe if we hurry up and throw all of our stuff in the car, we could make a clean getaway," Sara said just a touch desperately.  
  
Now Ian shook his head regretfully. "Unfortunately, in these conditions, it will take several minutes to reach the main thoroughfare, and there is no guarantee that we will not get stuck in the snow, even with four-wheel drive," he said.  
  
Defeated, Sara sighed. "You're right, of course. I guess there's no escaping it. We were gonna have to face the music sooner or later. I was just hoping it would be later rather than sooner."  
  
"Me, too," Ian murmured, breaking out into a cold sweat as he recalled Marie Siri's relentless interrogation of him over the dessert course the other night.  
  
Robert Siri appeared behind his wife in the kitchen doorway. "Hi, guys."  
  
Sara glared at him. "You just had to sic Marie on us, didn't you, Robbie?" she growled.  
  
"Hey, my mom called me, not the other way around!" he said defensively. "My parents had all of us over for dinner the other night, so I'm just returning the favor."  
  
"Yeah, and I bet the fact that me and Ian are here just slipped out, right?"  
  
"Actually, Mom asked me if I'd heard from you since the blizzard," Robert informed her coolly. "She and my dad were worried sick about you after that fire at the warehouse the other night, but you never even bothered to call and let them know you were all right. I was the one who did that."  
  
"Well, she was kind of preoccupied with nursing Ian back to health," Paula defended her, earning a grateful look from Sara.  
  
"Yeah, among other things," Robert sniffed.  
  
"Other things?" Sara questioned.  
  
"I believe he is referring to our, um, extracurricular activities," Ian supplied, coloring. *Wild monkey sex,* he added privately at her blank look.  
  
Sara scowled. "Okay, I get that you're pissed off about Ian being a professional killer, Robbie, but I never thought you'd stoop this low just to get back at me for going out with him," she told her brother angrily.  
  
"Former professional killer," Nottingham interjected softly.  
  
"Oh, come on, Sara, don't you think you're overreacting just a little?" Robert exclaimed exasperatedly. "You were gonna come clean to my parents eventually anyway, right? Telling them at Thanksgiving would have put a damper on the whole affair, so, the way I see it, I actually did you a favor."  
  
"I guess you're right," she grudgingly admitted, "although I'm pretty sure that what Ian used to do for a living will pale in comparison to the fact I've hooked up with him in Marie's book. She'd love nothing better than for me to settle down and start popping out babies." 'And she'll get her wish if the Witchblade's visions are any indication,' Sara thought, unconsciously touching her still-flat stomach.  
  
"If you would prefer not to have dinner with us, Robert, Sara and I can take our food and eat it in the garage apartment," Ian suggested quietly, fervently hoping he'd take him up on the offer. Then again, he highly doubted their absence at the dinner table would deter Marie Siri from visiting them after she'd finished her meal at the main house. It would only forestall the inevitable.  
  
"What, and miss the chance to watch my mom give you the third degree again? Not on your life," Robert replied, grinning evilly. "That was the best part of the evening the other night!"  
  
"That is so wrong, Robbie," Sara said, but she couldn't help grinning back at him, mightily relieved that he wasn't angry with them anymore.  
  
"Here they are," Paula murmured, and Sara and Ian turned to see Joseph Siri, Sr. and Marie Siri coming up the driveway, accompanied by their grandson.  
  
Abruptly, Gina Marie Siri pushed past the adults and rushed outside. "Grandma, Grandpa!" she cried, leaping into her grandfather's welcoming arms.  
  
"Hello, my sweet girl!" he laughed, kissing her. She leaned down to receive a kiss from her grandmother, who wore a full-length fur coat and a hat with a matching fur brim.  
  
"Well, don't you look adorable in that sweater I knit for you!" Marie said, beaming. "I know it's warm, but not that warm! Let's go inside, cara mia, before you catch your death of cold!"  
  
Sara and Ian hastily retreated into the kitchen.  
  
"Hi, Mom, Dad," they heard Robert say. "Here, let me take your coats."  
  
*Are you ready for this?* Sara anxiously sent to Ian.  
  
*Ready as I'll ever be, my love,* he replied, grasping her hand reassuringly.  
  
"Ah, there you are, Sara and Ian!" Marie Siri said, coming into the kitchen a few moments later. Her sharp eyes flicked from their joined hands to their faces. "Joe and I were pleasantly surprised to hear that you both were here." Her husband came to stand behind her, followed by the rest of the Siri family, who stood around and watched the confrontation with unabashed interest.  
  
"Yeah, I'm real sorry I didn't call and let you and Joe know I was all right after that warehouse fire the other night," Sara said apologetically. "I had a lot on my mind."  
  
"Yes, like whether or not your Protector would survive the night," Marie said, carefully patting her silver-streaked dark hair back in place. "You're forgiven."  
  
Sara blinked. "What did you just say?"  
  
"You're forgiven."  
  
"No, before that."  
  
The older woman smiled slyly. "I believe you were made aware that ones such as your godfather and I exist."  
  
As her godmother's meaning slowly dawned on Sara, she shook her head in disbelief, her stunned gaze going from one to the other. Joseph Siri, Sr. smiled broadly and winked at her.  
  
"Wait a sec, you mean you and Joe are Watchers!?!"  
  
Marie nodded her once again perfectly coiffed head. "Yes, Sweetie, we are. Now, be a dear and go get me a snifter of cognac. I'm chilled to the bone!"  
  
*****  
  
The feeling of satiation and wellbeing that suffused Sara was only partially attributable to the delicious feast she'd just eaten. She realized that at this very moment she was happier than she'd been in a very long time, and this had everything to do with the fact that she was with the people she loved most in the world. What's more, she was in love for the first time in her life, and she was secure in the fact that she was wholeheartedly loved in return by the man who sat to her left, her Protector and soul mate, Ian Nottingham. The astounding discovery that her godparents were also her Watchers was just icing on the cake.  
  
"You're awfully quiet, Robbie," Sara said, green eyes studying her surrogate older brother's pensive features.  
  
Sighing, Robert Siri ran a hand through his dark-brown hair. "Just trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my parents led a double life and I didn't have a clue," he said. "It's a lot to take in. First, I find out that your boyfriend is an assassin -- excuse me, former assassin," he swiftly corrected himself as he noticed Ian frown. "Next, you tell me that you're the wielder of an ancient, mystical weapon and that he's your Protector. And to top it all off, I come to find out that my parents are in on the whole thing and always have been."  
  
"Yeah, I can see how all of this might throw you for a loop," Sara murmured, reaching over to grasp his left hand with her right hand. She winced as he recoiled from her touch, then realized that the stone set in the ornate silver bracelet on her right wrist was glowing like a red-hot ember.  
  
"I'm sorry," Robert grimaced apologetically. "The special effects sorta caught me off guard." Hesitantly, he extended his index finger toward the Witchblade. "How does . . . Is It warm to the touch?"  
  
Sara smiled. "Sometimes It can feel downright hot, but not now. Go ahead," she encouraged him, "I promise It won't bite."  
  
Robert's fingertip touched the crimson stone. His eyes widened as the bracelet morphed into the light glove form, covering Sara's hand in intricately filigreed, gleaming metal. As It had done with his son earlier, the Witchblade's "eye" opened and appeared to study Robert Siri. Sara could sense Its curiosity.  
  
"Um, did I piss It off?" her brother asked nervously, hastily removing his fingertip.  
  
"Nah. Witchy here is just showing off," Sara assured him.  
  
They watched as the Witchblade returned to Its deceptively innocuous bracelet form. "Does that mean you don't have complete control over It?" Robert asked her.  
  
"Well, you could definitely say It has a mind of Its own," she admitted wryly. "I'll be honest with you: I still have a helluva lot to learn about wielding the Witchblade, but I'm getting better and better at it."  
  
"So," Marie Siri said, having observed this interaction, "you and your Protector are going to confront Kenneth Irons tomorrow morning."  
  
"That's the plan," Sara said, glancing at Ian, who grasped her left hand and brought it to his lips. She was unable to suppress a shiver of desire as he pressed warm lips against the spot on her wrist where her pulse beat rapidly.  
  
"You'd better have a solid plan when it comes to Irons," Joe Siri, Sr. spoke up. "He's a devious sonofabitch, and he won't take kindly to Ian's rebellion."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know," Sara murmured. "Since you've been keeping tabs on him for years, do you have any advice on how we should handle him?"  
  
"Present a united front," Marie said instantly. "Knowing how new it is, Irons will test the bond between you and your Protector. He'll try his damnedest to drive you apart. Forgive me for saying so, but you are the weakest link, Ian. Since you've been under his total dominion for so long, the urge to submit to his bidding will be very, very strong, and he knows this, but you must find the strength to continue to defy him. One of our deepest regrets is failing to find you before Irons did," she said sadly.  
  
Ian gave her a startled look. "You searched for me?"  
  
"Far and wide, son," Joe nodded. "But by the time we located you, it was too late. Irons had already legally adopted you from the orphanage. Even back then he was too rich and powerful to take on, and we didn't dare risk exposing who we really were."  
  
"Irons has gone to great lengths to subvert your will to his, as we feared he would. And although we are very, very pleased that you abandoned him to be with Sara these past few days, I will not lie to you: breaking free of his control once and for all will be the hardest thing you have ever done," Marie told Ian.  
  
"But I will do it. This I swear," Nottingham said determinedly.  
  
"Your injury still troubles you," Joe Sr. observed, indicating the rapidly melting icepack affixed to Ian's left shoulder. "You may be forced to do battle tomorrow. Are you sure you're up to it?"  
  
"It's just some minor inflammation," Ian said dismissively. "I will be ready to fight if need be."  
  
"Perhaps you should put off this confrontation until you've had more time to heal, Protector," Marie murmured. "Even you cannot completely recover from injuries as serious as yours were in less than a week."  
  
Ian frowned, shaking his head. "We may not have that luxury, Signora. My father will have undoubtedly discovered where Sara and I are by now. As soon as the street in front of this house is plowed, we can expect to be attacked by his men. Our presence here puts your son and his family in danger, and the longer we delay our departure, the greater the danger grows. If I had been in my right mind four nights ago, I would have insisted we find shelter elsewhere."  
  
"While I acknowledge the validity of your concerns, I must point out that the Witchblade will warn Sara of an impending attack, giving everyone more than enough time to escape," Joe Sr. said. "But if it will make you feel better, Robert, Paula, and the kids can come stay with us for the next few days."  
  
"Save your breath, Joe," Marie said. "I can see that his mind is made up about confronting Kenneth Irons on the morrow. Tell us your plan," she commanded Sara and Ian. "Perhaps we can give you advice on how to strengthen it."  
  
Over dessert, they did just that.  
  
"Hmmm. It is a good plan," Marie said thoughtfully when they finished speaking. Absently, she toyed with the strand of pearls around her neck. Her dark eyes met her husband's for several moments. "Ah, yes! An excellent idea!" she smiled approvingly at Joe.  
  
"So, you guys can do that, too, hunh?" Joseph Siri, Jr. observed, grinning.  
  
"Do what?" Robert Siri asked.  
  
"Nothing," Sara said quickly, narrowing her eyes meaningfully at her nephew.  
  
"If you mean communicate telepathically, yes, my clever grandson, we can," Marie spoiled everything by saying.  
  
"I knew it!" Paula Siri cried. "Beginners' luck, my ass!"  
  
Robert gave Sara and Ian a disapproving look. "You guys actually used your telepathic powers to cheat at cards last night? You should be ashamed of yourselves!"  
  
"I did not want to, but Sara insisted," Ian blurted out.  
  
"Thanks a lot, Joey," Sara muttered and then rounded on Ian. "And aren't we forgetting who was counting cards last night?" He blushed bright red and darted guilty looks at Paula and Robert from beneath his long, dark lashes.  
  
"They're not the only ones who cheat," Gina Marie piped up. "Grandma and Grandpa always beat you at bid whist, too! After they leave, Mommy always complains about how they never seem to lose, right, Daddy?" Now it was Paula's turn to blush with embarrassment.  
  
Robert turned a disbelieving stare on his parents. "Please, say it ain't so!" he implored them.  
  
"Pah! We don't have time for this nonsense," Marie said tartly, neatly evading the question. "Joe has come up with an excellent idea about how to put Kenneth in his place, but it will take some doing in order for it to succeed. Now, listen carefully."  
  
More to come. Once again, I must thank all of you who took the time to post reviews. They really are a huge source of inspiration to me. Please, keep them coming, and I will endeavor to post the next chapter A.S.A.P. 


	58. Chapter 59

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. More's the pity; I'm having an awful lot of fun with them. Enjoy!  
  
Author's Note: WARNING: this chapter contains sexual situations that are unsuitable for underage readers and those who have a problem with that sort of thing. Strong language is also used. There. You've been warned, so please don't report me to fanfiction.net. Also, I apologize profusely for the terribly long wait between chapters. Real life has been a real bee- atch these past few months! So, without further ado . . .  
  
Chapter 59.  
  
To Sara's surprise, after his initial startled query, Ian refrained from further questioning her godparents about their revelation that they had searched for him all those years ago. She herself was itching to ask them to elaborate on the subject because, tantalizingly, their admission seemed to indicate that they had knowledge of Nottingham's origins. However, she reluctantly decided to put off digging up the past in the interest of concentrating on the plan Joe had come up with for dealing with Kenneth Irons in the here and now. After all, if all went well, there would be plenty of time to ask her Watchers for more details about their search for the boy destined to become her Protector. Sara supposed Ian had come to the same conclusion. But then she remembered his heartrending confession about being afraid to find out the real reason he'd ended up in that orphanage, and she realized that this had undoubtedly contributed to his reticence. No, now was definitely not the time or the place to delve into such a highly sensitive topic.  
  
After summarily ordering their son and his family to give them some privacy, Joe and Marie Siri spent a great deal of time discussing the strategy Joe had come up with, a sort of counterattack that, if successful, would go a long way toward nullifying the threat posed by Kenneth Irons. And while Sara and Ian had to admit that the plan was brilliant in its simplicity, they both were highly skeptical that it would be effective against Ian's erstwhile father, and they told the Watchers about their misgivings.  
  
"Ah, but it exploits Irons' greatest weakness: his ego. That is why it will succeed," Marie said confidently.  
  
"But it seems to me that it also depends on him having a heart," Sara said. "And I know for a fact that he's a heartless bastard."  
  
"I concur with Sara," Ian said quietly.  
  
"Be that as it may, we're putting the plan in motion," Joe Sr. said with finality. "Assuming, of course, that everything goes smoothly tomorrow."  
  
"Of course," Ian murmured. "However, we have also come up with a backup plan." He proceeded to tell them about the treatments Irons increasingly required to extend his life, and how one day soon he would need the current Wielder's blood in order to survive.  
  
Although Joe and Marie agreed that this gave Sara and Ian a great deal of leverage in their battle against Irons, they cautioned that offering him Sara's blood in exchange for being left alone was a line of action that should only be pursued as a last resort. It was blatantly obvious that they did not trust the ruthless billionaire to keep up his end of the bargain once his youthfulness and vitality were restored.  
  
"Kenneth won't hesitate to use your devotion to him against you, Ian. I wouldn't put it past him to pretend to be at death's door in an effort to force your hand," Joe said. "It's extremely important that you be able to negotiate from a position of power. You have something he wants -- the Witchblade -- but you'll soon have something he'll need to survive."  
  
"But what if he really is near death?" Ian said, unable to hide his distress at this possibility.  
  
"What about this Dr. Immo fellow who saved your life by hiding the antidote to the poison in the lining of your coat, Ian? As his personal physician, he'd know just how desperate Irons' situation truly is. Do you think he might be willing to help you again?" Marie asked.  
  
"Possibly," Ian replied. "Provided, of course, that he survived the Russians' attack."  
  
"Initial news reports said that there'd been casualties, especially among the Russians," Joe informed them. "But there's been precious little information released since then."  
  
Sara shook her head. "I doubt we'll find out anything from watching VCN, or any of the other stations for that matter," she said. "Vorschlag is in major damage control mode, and revealing civilian casualties definitely isn't on the agenda."  
  
"Until you find out if Immo's alive, and, more importantly, if he's willing to help you, I guess you'll just have to play it by ear, Ian," Joe said. "But you mustn't let Irons deceive you into giving him Sara's blood. He'll immediately regain the upper hand once that happens."  
  
"I . . . I am not . . . certain I can . . . turn my back on him if he appears to be dying," Ian haltingly admitted, a tormented expression on his face.  
  
"We're not suggesting that you let the old man die, Ian," Marie reassured him gently. "Just that you avoid caving in and giving him what he needs right away."  
  
Ian sighed heavily. "In any event, what he needs to survive is not mine to give," he said, his troubled gaze going to the face of the woman he loved.  
  
Sara reached over and gently stroked his forehead, smoothing the lines of worry from it. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I wish Irons would drop dead," she said, "especially since that would mean you'd be rid of him once and for all, my love. But for some reason, the Witchblade seems to want him to stay in the picture. Otherwise, why would It have given him longevity in the first place? So, even though I know he'll never stop trying to regain control of the Witchblade, I'm willing to try and strike a bargain with him. For you, Ian. However, once you break free of his control, all bets are off!"  
  
"Thank you, my Lady," Ian whispered, capturing her hand in his and reverently kissing it.  
  
"Remember: the most important thing is to present a united front," Marie reiterated. "As I said earlier, Kenneth Irons' towering ego will be his undoing. He simply cannot accept the fact that you have chosen Ian over him, Sara, and he will do everything in his power to drive a wedge between you. He knows that with your Protector by your side, you'll be nearly invincible. And although I know you'd like to keep your telepathic connection from him for as long as possible, demonstrating it to him would serve to prove that your bond is strong."  
  
"Tell me more about these treatments Irons needs, Ian," Joe Sr. requested. "I want to hear more about this Dr. Immo, too."  
  
Sara seized the opportunity for a much-needed bathroom break, and headed upstairs. When she came out a few minutes later, Marie was waiting in the hallway.  
  
"So, you finally followed your heart instead of that stubborn head of yours," her godmother said with an approving smile. "I was certain I had my work cut out for me trying to get you to accept Ian Nottingham for who and what he truly is."  
  
"Yeah, well, you laid it on pretty thick the other night," Sara shot back. "'Don't close your eyes to love, cara. It doesn't come around that often,'" she quoted, perfectly mimicking the older woman's accent and inflections.  
  
"Subtle I'm not," Marie agreed, grinning. "But it was good advice, no?"  
  
"You've always given me good advice," Sara acknowledged. Impulsively, she embraced her godmother. "I'm so grateful to you and Joe for being there for me. And I don't just mean now. You've been there for me my whole life, but I didn't realize how much I depended on you both until recently."  
  
"Oh, Sweetie! You know that we think of you as a daughter. I was telling Ian the truth when I said I'll consider your children to be my grandchildren."  
  
Sara pulled back and gaped at her. "You laid that on him after knowing him for little more than an hour? No wonder the poor guy looked terrified when he heard that you were coming over for dinner tonight! Have you no shame, woman?"  
  
"Not when it's a life or death situation, which getting you to acknowledge your feelings for him seemed like it was at the time. I could see that you were slowly beginning to accept him as your Protector, but I was afraid you would not realize that he is also your soul mate until it was too late. The lovemaking, it is good, eh?"  
  
Sara felt her color rise. "Uh, yeah. Very, very good. We can't seem to keep our hands off each other. In fact, I won't know for sure for a few more days, but I think I might be pregnant," she blurted out. "That complicates matters somewhat, doesn't it?"  
  
Marie made a dismissive gesture. "I highly doubt that you're pregnant," she surprised her goddaughter by stating.  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
"It's extremely unlikely the Witchblade would allow you to conceive while things are so unsettled. You have far too much to learn about wielding It, and your Protector must become his own man before you can even think about starting a family. There's simply too much turmoil surrounding you both right now."  
  
"But it's not impossible for me to be pregnant, right? I mean, the timing is definitely right and we haven't been using protection. Plus, the Witchblade showed us visions . . ."  
  
Sara's voice trailed off as she remembered Ian telling her that the visions only showed possible futures, and that the events they'd been shown might not take place for years, or might never come to pass at all. She placed trembling hands over her belly, stunned by the feelings of sorrow and loss that suddenly overwhelmed her, threatening to make her burst into tears.  
  
Perceiving her distress, Marie enfolded her in her arms comfortingly. "There, there, Sweetie. You and Ian will be blessed with children one day. I know it. Just not right away. Your lives are complicated enough as it is, eh?"  
  
"But they were such beautiful babies," Sara whispered, trying and failing to hold back tears.  
  
"What, they won't be beautiful when the time comes for them to be born? Of course, they will. And you'll both be wonderful parents. Now, stop this crying or you'll really upset your Protector," her godmother scolded her gently. "Can't you feel that he's worried about you?"  
  
Sara opened herself to the link she shared with Ian, and winced as she felt the anxiety thrumming along it. "Yeah, this bond thing is still kinda new. I keep forgetting that he can sense strong emotions from me. Oh, Marie, I hate to break this news to him on top of everything else," she said, sighing heavily. "That's why I didn't pursue it when you admitted that you and Joe had looked for him when he was little, even though I'm dying to find out what you know about his biological parents, if anything. He's got major abandonment issues."  
  
"Yes, that was a mistake on my part. That is a topic best left for another time, when things are more settled," Marie murmured, then swiftly changed the subject. "So, Ian was not alarmed by the possibility that you might be pregnant? That doesn't surprise me. He told me he wanted children with you, you know."  
  
"Oh, he did, did he?" Sara asked incredulously. "Exactly what didn't you discuss during your interrogation of him over dessert the other night?"  
  
"Whether he prefers a spring or summer wedding," Marie teased, dark eyes twinkling mischievously.  
  
"Well, if what you said earlier is true, there's no longer any rush to get to the alter," Sara said sadly. "I know I should feel relieved, but I don't. Just kind of empty and sad."  
  
"Ian senses this, and when he discovers the reason for it, he'll undoubtedly share your sorrow, but he's also realistic enough to know that now is not the time to start a family."  
  
"Then why did the Witchblade show me those visions?" Sara queried, absently stroking her stomach. "It showed Ian one of them, too."  
  
Her godmother shrugged. "Perhaps It felt it was necessary to show you both that you had a future together, as a means of strengthening your bond."  
  
"One possible future," Sara murmured thoughtfully. Then her expression darkened. "Oh, I get it. Ol' Witchy here isn't above using emotional manipulation to get what It wants. Those visions were Its way of convincing me to accept Nottingham as my mate. Come to think of it, when I asked It for permission to tell the people I love about me being Its Wielder, It made a point of saying how pleased It was that I'd taken him as my lover. You're not the only one who isn't subtle, Marie." Bitterness tinged her words.  
  
"Ian loves you, Sara. I know how much you hate the thought of being manipulated into falling in love with him, but don't lose sight of that fact. Deep in your heart you know he's right for you, just as you are for him. It is your love for him that may very well determine whether or not he succeeds in breaking free of Kenneth Irons' control. He needs to know that you'll be there for him, come what may," Marie said urgently.  
  
"Did the other Wielders find the fact that their destinies were set in stone so hard to swallow, or is it just me?" Sara asked plaintively.  
  
"Well, apparently stubbornness is a trait that all True Wielders share, so I'd have to say, no," her godmother said wryly, but her tone became serious again. "Never make the mistake of thinking that you have no free will, Sara. You always have a choice --"  
  
"Even when it seems as though I don't," Sara finished the sentence for her. "Ian said almost the exact same thing to me."  
  
"You don't realize what it took for him to defy Irons to be with you. Nor do you realize just how difficult it will be for him to win his freedom. Yes, it was emotional manipulation to lead you to believe that you will become parents in nine months or so, but if it means Ian has been given an added incentive to break the chains that bind him to that evil man, was it truly such a bad thing?" her Watcher queried.  
  
"So, what you're saying is I shouldn't tell him that I'm probably not pregnant."  
  
"Not at all," Marie responded. "What I'm trying to say is that the possibility that you have a future together is incentive enough for him. In fact, I suggest you take one of those early pregnancy tests as soon as possible instead of waiting for nature to take its course. That way, Ian can focus all of his attention and energy on winning his freedom. Babies and the enormous responsibility that they entail can wait."  
  
"I'll try to remember to pick one up at the drugstore tomorrow," Sara murmured. "I know you're right about our lives being complicated enough right now, but I just can't seem to forget what those visions showed me. We were so happy."  
  
"That was the point, no?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess so." Sara heaved a sigh. "We had boys, Marie. Two of them."  
  
The older woman's dark eyes widened in surprise. "Boys? Are you sure you're not mistaken?"  
  
Sara shook her head. "Nope. Our firstborn looked so much like Ian, I started calling him 'Mini-Ian.' And he was there in the second vision, the one the Witchblade shared with Ian, in which I gave birth to another boy."  
  
"Remarkable! A male offspring -- much less two -- hasn't been born to a Wielder in centuries. What's more, the bloodline is very thin. You were the first potential True Wielder born in nearly three generations. I was certain the two of you would give me granddaughters!"  
  
"Well, I'm not making any promises after the first two!" Sara said wryly. "Although Witchy was kind enough not to let me feel the pain my future self was feeling in the vision, I could tell that giving birth was no walk in the park!" But then her lips tightened as a thought struck her. "Who the hell am I kidding? If the Witchblade decides I'm gonna have half a dozen kids, so be it, right?"  
  
"Not necessarily," her Watcher said cryptically. "We've been gone long enough, don't you think? Go on back down. I'll be right behind you. I'm just going to powder my nose."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Sara slowly made her way back downstairs, her mind chewing over her godmother's last comment. *I've just had a very interesting conversation with Marie,* she sent to Ian.  
  
*Is that so? Do you want to tell me about it?* he responded.  
  
*Later. Did you and Joe talk about anything interesting while we were gone?*  
  
*Actually, he did most of the talking.*  
  
*Why am I not surprised?* she said dryly.  
  
*He shared anecdotes about your childhood and teenage years. I was happy to simply listen.*  
  
*Uh, yeah. Right,* Sara muttered uneasily. *Um, you're not gonna repeat any of those stories to my friends and coworkers, are you, Nottingham? After all, I've got a reputation as a tough-as-nails homicide detective to uphold!*  
  
Ian's psychic chuckle caressed her mind. *Your secrets are safe with me, my love. For now.* But then his "voice" became wistful. *It sounds like you had a very happy childhood, Sara, despite the tragic loss of your parents. You're very lucky to have had Joseph and Marie as godparents, and now as your Watchers.*  
  
*Yeah, I realize that. In fact, when I came out of the bathroom and saw Marie standing there, it hit me just how lucky I am. But I'm even luckier to have you as my friend and lover,* she told him. *Oh, yeah, and you're also a pretty decent Protector.*  
  
She clearly sensed the powerful emotion that welled up in him at her words, and then she saw it in his soulful hazel eyes as she reentered the dining room. *Do you have any idea how much it means to me to hear you say that?*  
  
Stepping close to him, she brushed her fingertips over his full lips. *Why don't you show me later, when we're alone?* Sara said, wiggling her eyebrows at him suggestively.  
  
Ian promptly stood up from the table. "We are done here, are we not?" he said to Joe Sr.  
  
"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Joe said, looking from one to the other knowingly. "What's your hurry? I thought we might play a few hands of bid whist."  
  
"They're young and in love. Remember what that was like?" Marie Siri said, entering the dining room.  
  
"Vaguely," he grinned. "Go on you two. We'll say good night to Robert, Paula, and the kids for you. Oh, and since we're spending the night, we'll see you off in the morning, even if it is the crack of dawn."  
  
"Okay. Good night," Sara said, grasping Ian's hand, and tugging him toward the hallway.  
  
"Good night, Joseph and Marie, and thank you for everything," Ian told her godparents. "See you in the morning." He closely followed Sara down the hall and through the kitchen to the mudroom, where they hastily donned their outerwear.  
  
Sara waited impatiently while Ian stepped outside and did a quick reconnaissance of the immediate vicinity of the house.  
  
*All clear?* she sent after a couple of minutes.  
  
*Yes.*  
  
Gasping at the frosty night air, she joined him outside, and they hurried across to the garage apartment. Flicking on the lights, Sara was surprised when she saw that the clock on the wall in the kitchenette said it was only 10:00 pm. It felt much, much later.  
  
"So, this is our last night together for who knows how long," she said, taking Ian's overcoat from him and hanging it next to hers in the closet by the front door. Her fingers lingered on the fine, black wool for a moment. The garment was definitely the worse for the wear but still looked pretty good considering everything it had been through over the past several days.  
  
"Yes," Ian murmured, glancing around the garage apartment as if to memorize every detail of the place where he'd spent the happiest and most pleasurable hours of his life.  
  
"I know Joe and Marie don't think we should push our luck by trying to get Irons to agree to let you stay with me through Thanksgiving, but I hate the thought of being apart from you, even for one night," Sara said, realizing that it was true. Tears filled her eyes and emotion tightened her throat. "I'll miss you so much, baby," she sniffled.  
  
"And I will miss you, my love," Ian whispered, enfolding her in his arms. He had already resigned himself to sleepless nights filled with loneliness and longing for so long as they were forced to be apart from each other. In fact, the very thought of returning to his formerly ascetic existence was anathema to him. Sara had become as necessary to him as breathing, and he seriously doubted he would be able to rest without her beside him at night. Bending his head, he kissed her passionately, molding her slender body to his.  
  
She returned his kiss enthusiastically, her arms tightening around his waist. "Make love to me," she breathed when they were finally forced to come up for air.  
  
"Gladly," he responded, effortlessly scooping her up in his arms and heading for the bedroom.  
  
******  
  
Much, much later, head propped on her left hand, Sara Pezzini studied the face of the man lying on his back beside her. From all outward appearances, Ian Nottingham was fast asleep. His eyes were closed, his big body was completely relaxed, and his breathing was deep and regular. But Sara clearly sensed that he was awake, his formidable brain on overdrive. She'd hoped that the marathon lovemaking session they'd indulged in would tire him out enough to let him sleep, but apparently it hadn't.  
  
"You really should get some sleep, Ian," she murmured. "It's after 1:00, and we have to get up in just a few hours in order to be on the road by first light."  
  
With a deep sigh, Ian gave up the pretense of sleeping. "I am afraid I am far too nervous to sleep," he admitted, changeable hazel eyes opening. "Besides, you are also wide awake."  
  
Sara's lips quirked. "Noticed that, did you?"  
  
"I cannot stop thinking about the coming confrontation with my father," Ian murmured, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. "I am very glad that you will be there with me, Sara, but I am also worried about the potential threat to you. My job is to protect you from danger, not lead you into it."  
  
"If you're thinking about trying to talk me out of accompanying you, save your breath," she told him firmly. "I'm coming with you. End of subject."  
  
Ian turned over onto his right side, mirroring her pose. "But what if he has anticipated our next move? We could be walking into an ambush."  
  
In the dimness of the bedroom, the pupils of his large eyes were enormous and his brow was furrowed with anxiety. Sara was fast coming to realize that she could deny him nothing when that heart-melting kicked- puppy expression was on his handsome face. So, she looked at anything but his face and resolutely hardened her heart.  
  
"That's a chance we'll just have to take," she shrugged, her gaze arrested by his sculpted physique. She started to touch him, but drew her hand back at the last second, unwilling to let herself be distracted by his gorgeous body. Besides, he needed sleep, not to be further exhausted by another round of lovemaking.  
  
However, Ian was not constrained by any such form of self-denial. Sara gasped as he reached over and flicked the nipple of her left breast, instantly causing it to pucker wantonly. White teeth flashed in the darkness, and the next thing she knew he was pressing his scorching mouth against her aching aureole.  
  
"I said you should get some sleep, Nottingham, not more poontang!" Even as she uttered this weak protest, Sara found herself clutching his tousled head to her breast.  
  
"'Poontang'?" he murmured, grin widening. "Yet another euphemism for lovemaking, I take it?"  
  
"One of my favorites," she replied, returning his grin.  
  
"What are some others?" he queried, his thumb teasing the nipple of her right breast.  
  
Sara laughed. "You want me to talk dirty to you, is that it?" Her laughter turned into a moan as he repeated his oral assault on her other breast. His hand traveled down the front of her body, eliciting a pang of need from her as his fingers delved into the curls below her navel.  
  
"Yes, talk dirty to me," Ian whispered after several excruciatingly pleasurable moments.  
  
"Sorry," she panted. "When you do that to me, I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts, let alone words!"  
  
"When I do what? This?" His tongue laved her right nipple. "Or this?" He massaged her throbbing clit.  
  
"Yes!" she gasped, writhing against him.  
  
His low, sexy chuckle enflamed her further. "Which one is it, Sara?"  
  
"Shut up and fuck me already, you tease, you!" she growled, practically pulling him on top of her.  
  
In the end, they managed a scant three hours of sleep.  
  
More to come. As always, I'd like to say thanks to all of my faithful readers/fans for the wonderful feedback, which, as all of you fellow writers know, is a true source of inspiration. I'm planning to wrap up this, my inaugural Witchblade fanfic, in the next couple of chapters. But never fear, a sequel is already simmering on the back burner! Thanks again everyone! dragongrrl. 


	59. Chapter 60

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them for a while. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 60.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
We will fly way up high  
  
Where the cold wind blows  
  
Or in the sun, laughing and having fun  
  
With the people that she knows  
  
And if the situation should keep us separated  
  
You know the world won't fall apart  
  
And you will free the beautiful bird  
  
That's caught inside your heart  
  
~ From "The Horses," by Rickie Lee Jones  
  
~~~~~~  
  
What felt like mere seconds after she closed her eyes, Sara heard Ian say softly, "Wake up, Sara. It is time to get moving."  
  
It was still pitch-dark outside, but he must have turned on the bedside lamp, because the light behind her eyelids suddenly became much brighter.  
  
"Nooooo!" she protested, pulling the comforter up over her head. But Ian immediately pulled it back down.  
  
"Sara."  
  
"Okay, I'm up, I'm up," she muttered groggily, sitting up. "Need coffee. Now!"  
  
"Coming right up." Ian threw back the blankets and swung his long legs over the side of the bed, but then hesitated, glancing at her. "But what about Mini-Ian?"  
  
"Shit," Sara said succinctly. "I forgot all about him." She fell back onto the bed with a groan, but then grinned as a thought struck her. "Awww! I think that's the first time you've called him that."  
  
Ian shrugged self-consciously. "Ever since the Witchblade shared that last vision with me, I find myself thinking of him as a real person."  
  
"Me, too." But then Sara remembered what Marie had told her last night. 'Oh, hell,' she thought forlornly 'I have to tell him what she said.'  
  
"I know it is poor substitute, but I will brew you a pot of decaf while you are showering," Ian said rising and heading toward the bathroom.  
  
"Thanks, baby. Are you gonna fix breakfast, too?" she asked hopefully, admiring his morning wood.  
  
"Sure," he said agreeably, not bothering to close the bathroom door as he peed. 'She certainly has her priorities straight,' Ian thought with amusement. 'First coffee, then food.'  
  
"Is another omelet acceptable?" he asked, flipping the toilet seat back down.  
  
"That'd be great." She lay there, trying to work up the courage to tell him that she probably wasn't carrying their child.  
  
"Ian," she said when he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, "remember last night when I told you I had a very interesting conversation with Marie?"  
  
"Yes, I remember." He went to the wardrobe and took out the black kimono-style robe and navy-blue drawstring pants he'd worn the last time he'd cooked breakfast for the two of them -- had it really only been two days ago?  
  
"Well, when I mentioned to her that I might be pregnant, she said she doubts that I am," Sara told him, sitting up again and hugging her knees to her chest.  
  
Ian froze in the act of pulling on the pants, startled hazel eyes meeting hers. "Did she say why?"  
  
She nodded. "She just doesn't think the Witchblade would allow me to conceive while things are still so unsettled in our lives."  
  
He shrugged into the robe and belted it, a thoughtful look on his handsome, bearded face. "That makes sense. You still have so much to learn about wielding the Blade," he murmured. "And then there is my own situation, which must be dealt with first."  
  
"Marie pointed out both of those things, too," Sara told him, studying his expression carefully. "So, you're not upset?"  
  
Ian lowered his eyes. "I would be lying if I said I was not disappointed," he admitted softly. "But I am also practical. I realize that now is not the ideal time to start a family."  
  
"Yeah, I'm with you on that. So, why do I feel so sad?" Sara muttered, appalled to feel her eyes well up. She'd shed enough tears over the past week to last her a lifetime. For someone who didn't consider herself to be the emotional type, this new tendency was rather alarming.  
  
Instantly, Ian was kneeling on the bed and gathering her in his arms. "Perhaps because you want those visions to become reality as badly as I do," he whispered, lips brushing her forehead tenderly. "I did not realize just how much I want to be the father of your children until the Witchblade shared that amazing vision with me, Sara. The intense emotions my future self experienced upon witnessing the birth of our second child were earth- shattering for me. I never knew such joy was possible. Even the mind- blowing pleasure our lovemaking gives me pales in comparison to what I felt during that vision. As I said before, Sara, I will do everything in my power to make what we were shown become reality."  
  
"And I'm gonna do everything I can to help you," she promised, hugging him tightly.  
  
"So, will you be having full-strength coffee this morning, my Lady?" he inquired after a couple of minutes, during which they both struggled to control their emotions.  
  
Sara shook her head. "I think I'll stick with decaf. Just in case Marie is wrong."  
  
"When will you know for certain?" Ian asked quietly.  
  
"Well, as you so observantly noted thanks to my desk calendar at work, I'm expecting my period sometime this week, or possibly early next week," Sara said, squirming just a little at discussing such a personal subject with him. "I'm usually extremely regular, except when I've been under a lot of stress, which pretty much describes this past week." She shrugged. "So, I'm not really sure when to expect it. Marie suggested I take one of those early pregnancy tests instead of waiting for nature to take its course. Maybe we can stop at a drugstore along the way and pick one up?"  
  
"There is a 24-hour drugstore in Scarsdale, but it may have been forced to close because of the weather. We can stop by and see if it is open."  
  
"Okay." Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. "As usual, I'm famished," she said ruefully. "I'd better hop in the shower."  
  
Reluctantly, Ian released her and stood up. "And I will get breakfast started," he said, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly 05:00 hours.  
  
Sara took a quick shower, mindful of leaving enough hot water for Ian to do the same. Her stomach rumbled insistently as she rummaged through her duffle bag for a change of clothes. Once dressed, she started packing up the rest of her stuff, and had almost finished when Ian sent *Breakfast is ready, my love.*  
  
*Hallelujah!*  
  
They ate in companionable silence except for the appreciative sounds Sara made as she devoured her share of the once again perfect omelet, along with two cups of decaf and three slices of buttered toast. There was a faint but perceptible brightening in the eastern sky by the time they had cleaned up the breakfast dishes and finished packing up their belongings.  
  
While Ian showered, Sara brewed a thermos of peppermint tea, stripped the bed, tidied up a little, and then stood staring blindly out the living room window, nursing her third cup of coffee. She didn't hear her Protector come out of the bedroom some twenty minutes later, and her heart leapt when she caught movement out the corner of her eye.  
  
*I'm sorry,* Ian sent. *I didn't mean to startle you.*  
  
She turned and saw that her easygoing, sensitive lover had been transformed into the lethal assassin who had once automatically caused her to frown irritably and finger her service weapon whenever she set eyes on him. Dressed entirely in black, his long, dark hair severely confined in a club at the nape of his neck, beard and mustache neatly trimmed, Ian Nottingham looked devilishly handsome and deadly.  
  
"Ready to go?" she asked softly.  
  
"Almost." With pantherish grace, Ian strode across the room to the shopping bag that held his weapons harness and took it out. He put it on with the ease of long practice, and buckled the straps. "Now I am ready."  
  
They put on their coats. "Wait here, please," Ian requested, and soundlessly slipped outside. He reappeared a couple of minutes later and shouldered her duffel bag before stepping outside again and holding the door open for her.  
  
Sara slung her knapsack over her shoulder, took up the first-aid kit, and gave the garage apartment one last lingering glance before closing and locking the door behind her.  
  
The automatic garage door opening sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed quiet of the snowy suburban street, as did the chirp of the SUV's alarm when Ian deactivated it. Opening the hatchback, he stowed the first- aid kit and duffle bag in the trunk, while Sara took the thermos of tea out of her knapsack, putting it in the storage area between the front seats before tossing her bag into the back seat. Then the two of them made their way to the main house in the watery grey predawn light, every exhalation creating puffy white clouds in the intense cold.  
  
The side door opened moments before they reached it, revealing a sleepy-looking Joseph Siri, Jr.  
  
"Morning," he mumbled, hastily retreating to the warmth of the kitchen, where, much to their surprise, the rest of his family and his grandparents had assembled to see them off.  
  
'Here I go again!' Sara thought exasperatedly as she felt tears burn her eyes. "You didn't have to get up at this ungodly hour, you know," she told her surrogate older brother huskily, handing him the keys to the garage.  
  
Robert grabbed her in a fierce hug. "Yes, we did," he said. "We wanted to wish you and Ian luck."  
  
His wife took his place when he released her. "Good luck," Paula whispered, her own eyes bright with tears as she gave her sister-in-law a warm embrace.  
  
"Good luck, Aunt Sara," Gina Marie Siri said, not bothering to wait until her mother was through hugging Sara before she threw her arms around her waist and hugged her tightly. She then turned to Ian and repeated the gesture. "Good luck, Ian."  
  
"Thank you, Princess," he whispered, hugging her small form back.  
  
Paula stood on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Ian's bearded cheek. "The best of luck to you, Ian. Take care of yourself, you hear me?"  
  
"Yes, Ma'am," Ian said, hazel eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Thank you for everything."  
  
Joey gave his aunt a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Everything's gonna work out fine," he told her confidently. "So, we'll be seeing you and Ian in just a few days at Thanksgiving." He turned to Ian and stuck out his hand. "I know I'm right, Ian."  
  
Ian grasped the teenager's hand and shook it. "With all my heart, I hope that you are, young Joseph." He turned and extended his gloved hand to the boy's father. "I am forever indebted to you and your family for providing me with a much-needed refuge, Robert. I will remember your kindness and generosity for as long as I live."  
  
Robert shrugged and shook his hand. "You're family now, Ian," he said simply. "You're always welcome here. I mean that."  
  
"Thank you," Ian rasped, throat tight with emotion.  
  
"There will always be a place for you at my table, Ian Nottingham," Marie Siri said, reaching up to pat his tear-streaked cheek. "Stay strong."  
  
"I will try," he said softly.  
  
Joe Siri, Sr. held out his hand to Ian. "I share my grandson's confidence. You'll do fine," he said. "But when things get tough, just remember that we're all pulling for you."  
  
Ian grasped the older man's hand firmly. "I will remember that."  
  
Marie turned to Sara. "Come give your poor old godmother a hug before you leave," she demanded.  
  
Sara went willingly into her familiar, comforting embrace. "Wish me luck, Marie," she whispered. "I'll need it!"  
  
"I wish you luck, love, and happiness. I always have and I always will," she told her goddaughter, hugging her tightly. "Never doubt that."  
  
"Good luck, Sweetheart," Joe Siri Sr. said, when his wife finally released her. "Remember: we're here for you and Ian 24-7," he told her, enveloping her in one of his patented bear hugs, which Sara wished would never end. But, of course, all too soon, it did.  
  
"Let's get going, Nottingham," she said gruffly. "Bye, everybody!" Blinded by tears, she fled out the door of the mudroom.  
  
"Bye, Sara," her family called after her. "Goodbye, Ian!"  
  
Ian raised a hand in farewell and then quickly followed Sara outside, where the first rays of weak winter sunlight were struggling to dispel the dawn gloom. The SUV's alarm chirped as he deactivated it again.  
  
"I sure hope we don't get stuck in the snow," Sara muttered, opening the front passenger-side door. "That would be sorta anticlimactic after that send-off." She climbed into the front passenger seat, absently wiping tears from her cheeks.  
  
"Just a little," Ian agreed, getting behind the wheel and fastening his seatbelt. "Please buckle up, Sara." He started the engine and let it warm up for several minutes, during which they both sat there lost in their own thoughts.  
  
Ian shifted into reverse. "Here goes," he murmured.  
  
It took them half an hour just to reach the main thoroughfare, and they nearly did get stuck in the deep, never-plowed snow several times.  
  
"I am sure I do not have to remind you to keep an eye out for a tail," Ian said, sharp eyes scanning the street intently. "I would be very surprised if Mr. Irons did not have someone watching for us. In fact, I would count on it."  
  
"Does a Hummer full of ex-military types fit the bill?" Sara asked, rubbing her right wrist. The Witchblade had abruptly come to pulsating life in clear warning.  
  
"You spotted them, too," Ian nodded approvingly.  
  
"Yeah, and they've spotted us. Think you can lose them?"  
  
He shrugged unconcernedly. "I am confident that will not be a problem. The Hummer may be at the top of the SUV food chain, but --"  
  
"The BMW is the Ultimate Driving Machine," Sara interjected, watching in the side-view mirror as the huge, gunmetal grey Hummer pulled into traffic and began following them.  
  
Ian spared her a quick glance. "While I agree with you that German engineering is far superior to most countries' automotive efforts, I was going to say the BMW's smaller size makes it more maneuverable and responsive, which will work to our advantage, especially in these driving conditions. Plus, it is a much less conspicuous vehicle."  
  
"Oh." Sara shook her head ruefully. "I keep forgetting that you don't watch TV very often. More like never, hunh?"  
  
He nodded. "This is true. Mr. Irons felt my time was better spent learning how to become a world-class assassin and bodyguard. Among other things, I excelled at the art of losing tails."  
  
He swiftly proceeded to prove that he was right, even when a second Hummer joined the pursuit moments later.  
  
"All gone," Sara said ten minutes later, "and we're not even out of Brooklyn. Good work, Nottingham." She was impressed not only with his driving skills, but by the cool, confident way he handled the car in driving conditions that were extremely challenging.  
  
The so-called Thanksgiving Blizzard had really done a number on the entire tri-state area. Only the major arteries had been plowed and salted since the snow had started in earnest, and even they were still slick and treacherous. The sheer volume of snow, which at times had fallen at a rate of several inches an hour, had made it impossible for the hapless road crews to keep on top of it. As a result, ill-equipped motorists who had been foolhardy enough to venture out during the height of the storm had quickly found themselves in trouble. Abandoned cars littered the Belt Parkway, narrowing the normally three-lane highway to a single lane at times. But Sara was now confident that they would reach their destination. The SUV's four-wheel drive and the man behind the wheel would see to that. A jaw-cracking yawn took her by surprise.  
  
"It will take us at least an hour, probably longer, to reach Scarsdale, Sara. Feel free to nap until then," Ian told her.  
  
"That's all right," she refused, cracking the window to let in some cold air. "Besides, you must be tired, too."  
  
"I am fine. I do not require as much sleep as most people," he informed her.  
  
"Well, be that as it may, I'll feel better if you concentrate on driving while I keep an eye out for a tail," Sara said firmly, fixing her gaze on the side-view mirror.  
  
But her eyelids swiftly grew heavy. After jerking awake for the third time, Sara conceded defeat. "I'll just rest my eyes for a little bit," she murmured, discovering that her seat reclined nearly flat.  
  
The last thing she heard was Nottingham's soft "Sleep well, my love."  
  
******  
  
Sara surfaced from a deep, dreamless sleep when she sensed a lack of motion. Feeling surprisingly refreshed, she glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that more than an hour had elapsed since she'd dozed off. It was a little past 8:30 a.m.  
  
"The drugstore is open, Sara," Ian said, and she realized that they were in the store's parking lot, which was dotted with several ten-foot- high mountains of plowed snow.  
  
"Great," she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Do you want anything while I'm in there? Maybe a snack, or some bottled water?"  
  
"No, thank you. Here," he held out a twenty-dollar bill. "Will this be sufficient?"  
  
"More than enough, I think. Thanks." She opened the car door and hopped out. "Be right back."  
  
Sara quickly found the item that she wanted and brought it to the cashier in the front of the store. Out the window, she could see Nottingham standing next to the SUV. He was watching the street.  
  
"Do you have a rest room?" Sara asked the cashier.  
  
"Can't wait to find out, hunh?" the 60-ish woman said knowingly. "It's in the back to the left."  
  
"Uh, thanks," Sara muttered, coloring. She'd only wanted to empty her uncomfortably full bladder, but decided there was no time like the present. After all, the package promised easy-to-read results in less than five minutes. *I'm gonna use the facilities, Ian,* she sent. *And while I'm in there, I may as well take the test. It'll only take about five minutes.*  
  
*I'll be waiting for you in the car.*  
  
Exactly seven minutes later, Sara left the bathroom and headed for the exit. She felt the cashier's eyes on her but didn't glance her way as she left the store.  
  
As promised, Ian was sitting behind the wheel when Sara came out of the drugstore. Apprehensively, he examined her expression, which was curiously blank, as she approached the car, opened the passenger-side door, and got in. She fastened her seatbelt and then just sat there, staring straight ahead out the windshield.  
  
"Well?" he finally prompted, unable to stand the suspense any longer.  
  
She started guiltily, then grimaced. "I feel like such an idiot! It wasn't until after the fact that I noticed that the insert said you should wait at least a week to take the test in order to get the most accurate results," she said dully. "It's been less than three days since we first made love."  
  
"Oh," Ian said, crestfallen.  
  
"That's why we shouldn't get all excited just because it was positive."  
  
Hazel eyes widened in shock. "It was positive!?!"  
  
Sara nodded, uncaring that her eyes had filled with tears yet again. "But we shouldn't get our hopes up," she warned him again. "It could be a false positive."  
  
"So, we must wait at least five more days to be certain."  
  
"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm sorry; I should have read the insert more carefully." She held up some crumpled bills. "And if it's all right with you, I'm gonna hold onto your change, 'cause I need to buy another test, but no way was I gonna do it in there. That old lady cashier was way too nosey," she said in a rush, ending on a broken little sigh that tore at Ian's heart.  
  
He removed his glove before gently wiping away her tears. "It is all right, Sara. I am glad our hopes have not been dashed, even if the timing is atrocious," he told her.  
  
"Me, too," she whispered. Leaning over, she pressed her lips against his in a short, sweet kiss. "Now, let's get going again. The sooner we get this confrontation over with, the better!"  
  
"Agreed."  
  
Less than ten minutes later, he pulled the SUV into the driveway of a large, Spanish-style house that was surrounded by an eight-foot-high wrought-iron fence.  
  
"Why are we stopping here?" Sara asked curiously.  
  
"Deep beneath this house is a tunnel that leads to the estate," Ian explained, rolling down his window. He entered a code into the keypad, and the gates slowly swung open.  
  
"Wow. But how can you be sure that nobody's home?" she questioned nervously as they continued on up the driveway.  
  
"The house is uninhabited."  
  
They stopped in front of a four-car garage that was attached to the house.  
  
"Inside is a state-of-the-art surveillance system that I designed and installed myself," he told her. "It is twin to the one in the command center at the estate. First, I must disable the motion-detection sensors in the tunnel. I should also be able to pinpoint my father's location before we leave here. I will be right back." He got out of the SUV and made quick work of the lock on the garage door, raising it, and then got behind the wheel again.  
  
As they pulled into the garage, Sara saw that yet another Hummer sat in one of three remaining spaces; however, the structure was otherwise empty.  
  
"It was sloppy of my replacement not to change the security codes," Ian murmured punching a code into the keypad located next to the door that led to the house. The blinking lights on the device went from red to green, and Sara heard the lock click open. "Father will not be pleased when he discovers this oversight."  
  
"Yeah, but if it's a trap, wouldn't he have instructed his security team not to change the codes, thus making it easier to lure us in?" Sara queried. "I'll bet he's that devious."  
  
Ian shot her a dark look at this reminder of the danger he was potentially leading her into. "We shall see," he said, opening the door.  
  
The garage opened onto what would most likely have been a storage room in a normal household setup, a place to keep nonperishable groceries, like cases of soda and bottled water, and automotive items, such as antifreeze, motor oil, and the like. But the shelves that lined the walls were empty. Sara soon discovered that the entire house was devoid of furniture and decoration, except for window treatments: heavy, opaque drapes hid the abnormally bare interior from prying eyes.  
  
'What a waste,' Sara thought, glancing around. She'd always been partial to Spanish-style houses, and this was a particularly beautiful example of one. It seemed like a crime to leave it empty.  
  
Ian led the way to a steel reinforced door with yet another keypad. Like he had with the others, he punched in a code from memory, unlocking it. He flicked on a light switch just inside the door, revealing stairs leading downward. Stepping aside, he allowed Sara to descend first, and then pulled the door closed behind him.  
  
The security system was located in what would have been a spacious rec room had the house been inhabited. Several large, plasma video screens were mounted above a semicircular workstation that housed half a dozen built-in computers. There were two sets of keyboards and two chairs. Ian took one and immediately began typing in commands. Sara took the other and sat back to watch him work. Three of the video screens flickered to life, displaying interior and exterior views of the estate, and what looked like different New York City street grids.  
  
Ian indicated the screen with the grids. "Those blinking dots indicate the locations of the three security teams that are searching for us. Please keep an eye on them and alert me if it appears that one or all of them are heading back here," Ian requested.  
  
"Sure." Sara blinked, and looked more closely at one of the grids. "Well, would you look at that: one of the teams is sitting on my loft. Does Irons really think we'd be stupid enough to go there?" she muttered, forgetting that that was exactly what they'd intended to do before Ian came up with the idea of coming here instead.  
  
"Apparently, he is taking no chances," Ian murmured, hazel eyes focused on the screen that showed interior views of the estate. He was cycling through images of the various rooms faster than Sara could follow.  
  
"Hmmm. Oddly enough, none of the teams appears to be watching the precinct. I wonder why that is?" Sara said thoughtfully. "It's as if Irons already knows I'm not going in to work today." Then it dawned on her. "He does know. That means he's got someone on the inside, which doesn't surprise me one bit. Who is it, Ian? Dante?"  
  
"That would be my guess," Ian responded, never taking his gaze off the screen. "It makes perfect sense. Who better to control than the person who has direct supervision over you? However, I do not know for certain that Dante is working for my father," he admitted.  
  
"I'm pretty damn sure it's him," Sara said frowning. "He's had it in for me ever since he took over for Joe. Plus, I get the feeling that he might be dirty. Him and a couple of the other members of the All Boys Club at the 11th. And that hunch has only grown stronger since I went through the Periculum."  
  
Her Protector nodded approvingly. "Excellent. You are learning to trust your Witchblade-enhanced instincts, my Lady."  
  
She made a skeptical face. "I'm not so sure about the enhanced part. As you know, I'm not exactly the trusting type. Dante is way too oily for my liking, and the fact that he so obviously enjoys busting my balls, and has from day one, doesn't exactly endear him to me," she admitted wryly.  
  
"No, I cannot imagine it would."  
  
"So, have you managed to find Irons yet?" Sara asked, noticing that he'd suddenly gone very still.  
  
"Yes. I have also discovered that Dr. Immo did, in fact, survive the Russians' attack, although apparently not unscathed. He is currently hospitalized in the estate's infirmary."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Something in his voice made her take her eyes off the screen she'd been tasked with monitoring and look at his face instead. What she saw there alarmed her. "Where is Irons, Ian?"  
  
"In the infirmary with Dr. Immo," he said tonelessly. "On life support."  
  
More to come. I know: Evil, evil dragongrrl and her cliffhangers! Drat her! :) Darn! I was really hoping to wrap up this story on a nice round number, like chapter 60. Oh well, the best laid plans . . . Once again, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the enthusiastic, highly entertaining, and occasionally downright threatening (bad, bad Eli!) feedback. Receiving your reviews and comments is the highlight of my day! Please, keep it coming and I'll keep on writing! I promise! dragongrrl 


	60. Chapter 61

Disclaimer: Same as the 60 other chapters. Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 61.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
I worry  
  
I weigh three times my body  
  
I worry  
  
I throw my fear around  
  
But this morning  
  
There's a calm I can't explain  
  
The rock candy's melted, only diamonds now remain  
  
~ From "Clarity," by John Mayer  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Oh, Ian!" Sara murmured, dismayed on his behalf but unable to muster up one iota of concern for Kenneth Irons. Although Ian was trying his best to hide it, it was obvious that he was extremely upset by the discovery of his father's condition. His large, expressive eyes were dark with anxiety and his expression was frighteningly bleak. Reaching over, she rubbed the tense muscles of his left arm comfortingly.  
  
The emotional hold Irons had over Ian clearly ran deep, despite the years of psychological and physical abuse the younger man had suffered at his hands. Perceiving the depth of her Protector's distress abruptly made Sara realize just how difficult it was going to be for him to divorce himself from the man he thought of as his father. He'd been trained from a very early age to put Irons' well-being before his own. Overcoming this nearly lifelong conditioning was not going to be easy. And when the Witchblade's inexorable directive -- protect the Wielder at all costs -- was added to this already complicated mix, it came as no surprise that Ian Nottingham was one terribly conflicted guy.  
  
'Is it too much to hope that Kenny really is dying?' Sara mused to herself, feeling an unwelcome stab of guilt for thinking how much simpler their lives would be if Irons were out of the picture. She squinted at the screen, but the image was too small for her to make out much more than a figure in a hospital bed.  
  
"Can you enlarge the picture?" she asked Ian quietly, and he entered a keystroke, increasing the magnification significantly.  
  
Sara's eyes widened, and she barely refrained from asking him if he was positive that the frail-looking man lying so still in that bed was actually his father. As it was, she was unable to stifle a gasp at the shocking change in Kenneth Irons' appearance.  
  
Just a few days ago, Gabriel Bowman had pegged the billionaire's age at closer to 100 than the mid-30s he appeared to be. Now he looked every bit of his true years. His shock of white-blond hair had thinned to mere wisps, revealing a liver-spotted scalp that was so tightly stretched over his skull, the bones shown through his pallid skin. Numerous IV tubes were inserted into the thin arms and large-knuckled, heavily veined hands that lay motionless on top of the blanket covering his shrunken form, and he appeared to be breathing with the aid of a ventilator. Kenneth Irons was virtually unrecognizable as the slightly debauched but undeniably handsome and athletically fit man he'd been the last time Sara had seen him. But just visible on the back of his claw-like right hand was a raised scar of twin, interlocking circles that proved his identity beyond the shadow of a doubt.  
  
"He looks pretty bad," Sara reluctantly acknowledged. "But I still think we should speak to Dr. Immo and see what he has to say before we commit to anything."  
  
"I have never seen him look this ill before," Ian said, voice harsh with barely contained emotion. "He is dying, Sara."  
  
"I know it looks like that, Ian, but remember what Marie and Joe said," she beseeched him. "He could be trying to trick us into believing he's worse off than he really is. Let's wait and see what Immo says."  
  
He made an impatient gesture. "We do not even know if Dr. Immo has regained consciousness. He could be heavily sedated or possibly even comatose. What do we do then?"  
  
Sara chewed on this for a few moments. "Bring up Immo's room again, and magnify the picture," she requested, sensing his growing agitation and praying that she'd spot something that would allay his fears for the time being.  
  
He did as she asked, and Sara examined the image closely. "There," she finally said, pointing at the screen.  
  
"What? I do not see anything," Ian snapped. It was all he could do not to rush to his father's bedside, and he felt something perilously close to resentment toward Sara for continuing to insist that they proceed with caution.  
  
"If I'm not mistaken, that's a pile of magazines and a pair of reading glasses on his tray table," Sara patiently explained. "Not many comatose patients have those things lying around."  
  
"Yes, I see them now," Ian murmured, chagrinned that he'd missed something so blatantly obvious. "He must be asleep."  
  
"Yeah. What do you say we go pay him a little visit?" She stood up.  
  
"Agreed. But first we must take a few precautions." He opened a drawer in the workstation, and took out what looked like a Palm Pilot. Inserting it into a data port in the desktop, he proceeded to download some information into it. When the transfer was done, he handed the device to Sara.  
  
"I have transferred the grids showing the locations of the security teams to that handheld," Ian explained. "I will need you to keep an eye on them for me, especially once we enter the mansion. The tunnels have not been equipped with the disabling strobe lights and high-frequency sound waves, but, unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the infirmary," he told her.  
  
"Okay, but what do we do if we're interrupted by another doctor or a nurse?" she asked, watching as he blanked the workstation's video screens.  
  
"Hopefully, the infirmary's staff will not have been alerted to my unauthorized absence these past few days. They are accustomed to occasionally seeing me in the infirmary and with Dr. Immo in his lab, so they will not think it strange that I am visiting him or my father. Nor should your presence with me cause any undue alarm. In fact, since they have undoubtedly been made aware that your blood holds the key to Mr. Irons' continued survival, they may even think our visit is planned," he explained, logging off the security system.  
  
"Let's hope so," Sara murmured.  
  
Ian rose and headed toward a vault-like steel door at the other end of the room. He entered a code into yet another keypad, but instead of a lock opening, the keypad sprang upward, revealing a thumbprint ID pad and a combination lock. Ian removed his heavy silver ring and then his glove, pressed his right thumb to the pad, and then swiftly dialed the lock's combination. Faintly, tumblers could be heard turning, and then the lights on the raised keypad turned from red to green. Of its own accord, the heavy door swung outward, revealing a gleaming metal elevator that was large enough to hold a dozen men.  
  
"After you, my Lady," Ian said, and Sara boarded the elevator with some trepidation. Although she wasn't the least bit claustrophobic, she was not crazy about the idea of descending hundreds of feet beneath the surface and ending up in a tunnel that probably offered very little in the way of cover in the event of a sneak attack.  
  
"How the heck did Irons manage to build all of this without the neighbors finding out?" she asked curiously as he flicked off the basement lights, reset the keypad, and joined her in the elevator.  
  
Ian pressed a button on the control panel. "Gradually," he responded as the outer door soundlessly swung shut, followed by the elevator's inner doors, "very, very gradually. The excavation and subsequent construction took nearly a decade to complete. The estate is 2.3 miles from here as the crow flies, but there are a maze of tunnels that extend in several directions for miles. Most of them dead end, but a few lead to escape hatches like this one." Almost imperceptibly, the car began its descent.  
  
"Amazing," Sara said, impressed. "I'll bet you could wander around down there for days and not find your way to the estate."  
  
"Yes, you could, except there are motion-detection sensors that would instantly alert security to any intrusion. There are also closed-circuit cameras; however, they are not monitored unless the sensors are triggered. Nonetheless, I have disabled them in addition to the sensors."  
  
Three minutes later, the elevator glided to a stop, and the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit, concrete lined tunnel that was surprisingly roomy. Sara estimated that it was at least ten feet wide and nearly as high -- more than wide enough for the golf cart-like vehicles parked nearby to ride two abreast. There were five of them, and each was capable of carrying four adults, which meant there were as many as 20 men out searching for them in those Hummers.  
  
Ian climbed behind the wheel of the nearest transport, and Sara got in beside him. "These run on electricity," he informed her, flipping a switch on the dashboard. The engine purred to life.  
  
"Yeah, I guess solar power is not an option down here, and gasoline or diesel fumes wouldn't be such a good idea," Sara commented. She'd been right about the lack of cover. The tunnel stretched emptily ahead of them for about 50 yards before branching off in four directions.  
  
Ian did a u-turn, and they began barreling along at a good clip. Sara took notice of the motion detectors studding the walls, as well as the cameras mounted on the ceiling. When they came to the first junction, Ian chose the second tunnel from the left without hesitation. They soon came to another junction with four more tunnels to choose from, and this time he chose the second from the right. Sara made a mental note of this, but quickly lost track of the twists and turns they took, especially since her attention was divided between watching where they were going and keeping an eye on the locations of the security teams in the field. Ten minutes later, Ian slowed the transport to a stop in front of a set of elevators doors. Sara noticed several other transports parked nearby.  
  
"May I have that back for a moment?" he asked, indicating the handheld.  
  
Sara handed it to him, and watched as he pressed a couple of buttons on it, bringing up pictures of the mansion's interior.  
  
"Excellent," he murmured after examining the images for several moments. "The corridor this elevator opens onto on the infirmary level is deserted. I was afraid that security might still be on high alert after the Russians' attack, meaning a guard would be posted outside my father's room. However, that does not appear to be the case."  
  
'The better to lure us into a trap,' Sara thought uneasily.  
  
But her dubious expression must have given her away because Ian nodded and said "Unless, of course, it is a trap."  
  
Sara held up her right wrist. "I'm ready if it is," she said grimly, noticing that the Witchblade's carnelian stone was quiescent. "But I'm not getting any warning signals, so I guess we're good to go."  
  
Ian said nothing in response to this; he simply switched to the screen showing the grids, gave the device back to Sara, and got out of the transport. Walking over to the other vehicles, he took out a knife and swiftly went about puncturing tires.  
  
"Just in case," he murmured, straightening. He moved over to the ubiquitous keypad set in the wall next to the elevator and rapidly entered a code into it. Once again, the pad rose upward, revealing a call button.  
  
Before pressing it, Ian took his sunglasses and a pair of earplugs from his coat pocket. He put on the glasses and inserted the plugs, and then pressed the button.  
  
*Stand to the side, Sara,* he cautioned her, following his own advice. She moved to the opposite side of the doors, and then blinked as she saw that he held tasers in both gloved hands; she'd never even seen him pull them out. Willing the Witchblade into gauntlet form, she waited tensely.  
  
But when the elevator arrived, it was empty. Ian put away the tasers and extracted a roll of tape from his pocket. He turned to Sara and handed it to her. *Would you do the honors, my Lady?*  
  
*Sure.* She removed his sunglasses, and their gazes met for the last time in who knew how long. Then Ian lowered his lids, and Sara tore off two short lengths of tape, shoving the roll in her jeans pocket before gently taping his eyelids shut. She put his sunglasses back in place, noting with satisfaction that the tape was now invisible. *All done.*  
  
*Thanks. Do you remember that trick I did with the cards the other night?* he asked her.  
  
*You mean when you flashed an image of your hand to me?* Sara queried. *I saw it clear as day, but just for an instant. Um, now is probably not the best time to be asking you this, but how the heck did you do that?*  
  
*I simply visualized the cards and sent you a snapshot of the image,* he explained. *To be honest with you, I wasn't sure it would work, but, much to my delight, it did. Sara, I'm going to need you to do the same thing for me so that I can navigate the hallways of the infirmary without mishap. Do you think you can handle that?*  
  
*Let's find out,* Sara said. She visualized the interior of the elevator, and then concentrated on sending the image to Ian.  
  
*Very good, Sara,* he praised moments later, striding into the elevator without hesitation. *In time, I believe this will become easier to do, until it's practically second nature for us both.*  
  
Sara joined him in the elevator. *Cool! It'll sure come in handy,* she mused, mightily intrigued by the possibilities this ability presented. *And not just when playing cards!*  
  
A smile tugged at his lips, and he shook his head. *You're incorrigible!* He gestured in the direction of the control panel. *Let's get this show on the road: Please push the button marked "Level C."*  
  
She did, and the elevator smoothly began to rise.  
  
*We must take a left turn when we come out of the elevator. Dr. Immo's room should be the third door on the left. We will pass a nurse's station on the right. Just follow my lead and ignore anyone who might be stationed there,* Ian instructed her. *If Immo is still asleep, wake him. If he reaches for the nurse's call button, stop him immediately. Remember, I will barely be able to hear his voice, so you must relay whatever he says to me. Let me do the talking. I will try to moderate my tone, but please let me know if I am speaking louder than normal. I don't want to tip him or my father off that I've taken precautions against the fail-safe device.  
  
*Both the hallways and the rooms are equipped with strobe lights and sound emitters,* he warned her, *and they can be activated remotely by security. I've disabled the listening devices and programmed the estate's security monitors to play a feedback loop showing empty hallways and video of my father and Dr. Immo as we saw them earlier, but that will only buy us perhaps 20 or 30 minutes at most. We can expect a security team to arrive shortly thereafter. The only warning we're likely to get is the activation of the fail-safe device. Remember to keep an eye on the handheld, because if it shows that the security teams in the field are on the move, that'll be a sure sign that they're on to our presence here.*  
  
*What'll we do then?* Sara asked.  
  
*It all depends on what Dr. Immo tells us,* Ian said. *I've plotted the course back through the tunnels on the handheld, Sara. I also downloaded the security codes. If necessary, you'll be able to find your way back to the safe house alone.*  
  
*So, what you're saying is you might be staying here,* Sara said, unable to keep disappointment from coloring her "voice." *With Irons.*  
  
*You knew that was a possibility coming in, Sara,* he said brusquely.  
  
*Yeah, I did, but--*  
  
*We're here,* he interrupted her protest as the elevator slowed perceptibly. *Remember: follow my lead.*  
  
The gleaming metal doors opened and they exited, turning left. Sara swiftly sent Ian an image of the empty hallway, and he strode confidently down the center with her right on his heels. As he'd indicated they would, they passed a nurse's station. The male nurse sitting behind the desk glanced up as they went by, but did not appear alarmed by the sight of them.  
  
*Nurse guy didn't even blink when he saw us,* Sara informed Ian.  
  
*Good.*  
  
*Okay, we've reached the third door on the left,* she told him moments later.  
  
Ian halted, allowing her to take the lead. *You go in first, Sara,* he bade her, placing a gloved hand on her ass. *Uh, sorry,* he muttered, moving it her hip, where the contact would not be obvious to the man lying in the bed. *Remember: don't let him push the call button.*  
  
*Got it.* She pushed open the door and stepped inside, followed closely by Ian.  
  
The kindly-looking gray-haired man in the hospital bed glanced up over the rims of his reading glasses as the door to his room opened, and his blue eyes widened in shocked recognition.  
  
"Ian! My dear boy, what on earth are you doing here?" he exclaimed. The remains of his breakfast sat on the tray table in front of him, and he held a magazine in his hands, one of which was heavily bandaged. Aside from that, and a few minor burns and abrasions on his face, he appeared to have gotten off fairly lightly for someone who'd almost been blown to smithereens.  
  
*He wants to know what we're doing here,* Sara relayed to Ian, piggybacking an image of the room and the doctor onto the telepathic communiqué.  
  
"Hello, Dr. Immo. I am glad to see you survived the Russians' attack," Ian said in a close approximation of his normal speaking voice. "I believe I have you to thank for my own survival."  
  
The older man glanced furtively up at the ceiling. "What are you talking about?" he asked with apparently genuine puzzlement.  
  
*I think he knows about the cameras and listening devices, 'cause he's making like he doesn't know what you're talking about,* Sara informed Ian.  
  
"Never fear, Doctor: I have temporarily disabled the video and audio feed. But we do not have a lot of time. Tell me truthfully: How is my father?" Ian asked, cutting to the chase.  
  
"Ancient," Immo said tersely. "The last treatment failed to rejuvenate him, and the stress of these past few days has hastened his deterioration."  
  
Sara relayed this news to Ian verbatim.  
  
"How long does he have, Dr. Immo? And I will know if you are lying," he warned him.  
  
"If you're asking if he's in immediate danger of dying, I'd have to say no. His vitals are stable. All that's really wrong with him is extreme old age. He's actually in remarkably good condition for a man of his advanced years," the doctor said. "However, the time remaining to him can be measured in months, perhaps weeks. He must have the current Wielder's blood in order to survive for much longer than that."  
  
Immo's gaze shifted to Sara as she passed on his response to Ian. "Detective Pezzini, we've never been formally introduced. I'm Stephen Immo, Kenneth Irons' personal physician," he said, extending his right hand toward her.  
  
*He actually had the nerve to introduce himself to me,* Sara told Ian, righteous indignation coloring her tone. *Excuse me while I bitch- slap him.* And stepping closer to the doctor's bedside, she did just that, dealing him a vicious, open-handed blow to the face.  
  
"That was for the torture you put Ian through," she growled, ripping the call button wire from the wall for good measure. "You're lucky I don't beat the crap outta you like I really, really want to."  
  
Glasses askew and eyes watering, Immo gingerly rubbed his cheek. "I guess I deserved that," he said wearily.  
  
"Oh, no, you deserve much, much worse," Sara snapped, green eyes blazing.  
  
*Sara,* Ian sent worriedly, *I hope you're not assaulting Dr. Immo. A beating could kill him in his condition, and, much as I hate to admit it, we still need his help.*  
  
*No, I only hit the creep once,* Sara reassured him. *That's definitely gonna leave a mark, though,* she said, admiring the imprint of her hand on the man's cheek with savage satisfaction.  
  
"Is my father conscious, Doctor?" Ian asked Immo. "And, if so, can he speak? It appeared to me that he is hooked up to a ventilator."  
  
"The ventilator is just for show; he is merely on oxygen," Dr. Immo informed him. "I'm afraid he suspected that you might return here, Ian, and he ordered Dr. Stone to make it look as if he is sicker than he actually is in an attempt to play on your sympathies. He may be physically frail owing to his extremely advanced age, but he's not even remotely impaired mentally," he said ruefully. "However, he tires very easily and therefore dozes off frequently, but he can and does speak once roused."  
  
Sara relayed the doctor's response, prefacing it with an irate *I knew it, that faker!*  
  
"He always was a master manipulator," Ian murmured. "As I said, we do not have much time, Doctor. Based on your actions in providing me with the antidote to the poison, I am going to take a chance on trusting you with my future plans. But I warn you, if you betray me, I will allow the Wielder to take her revenge on you for your complicity in allowing me to be used as a guinea pig for those experiments. She does not care that you were only following orders; she only knows that you caused me, her Protector, to suffer, and for that, she badly wants to make you suffer, too. You do not want that to happen, do you, Doctor?"  
  
*He's looking at me like I'm his worst nightmare,* Sara reported to Ian gleefully. *Maybe that's because I've willed the Witchblade into the gnarly glove form. You know, the one with lots of nice, sharp pointy things all over It? Plus, I'm licking my lips, uh, like I can hardly wait to use It on him, not, I repeat, NOT in a sexy way whatsoever,* she added hastily, hopefully before a distracting visual could form in his mind.  
  
*Thanks for making that distinction,* Ian sent dryly. To Immo, he said, "Now, listen to me carefully, Doctor. This is how things are going to play out. After we pay a brief visit to my father, I am going to leave the estate with Detective Pezzini and return to her home with her."  
  
Sara's spirits soared at hearing this, but her elation was short- lived.  
  
"However, before we leave here, she will leave behind a minute amount of her blood," he continued. "You will administer it to my father, but only after we have successfully made our escape. Can you give us some idea of how long the treatment will last, Doctor?"  
  
"Judging from the effect Elizabeth's blood had on him when I first started giving it to him, the restorative effects could last anywhere from several weeks to a month. Perhaps longer. Even a tiny amount of the blood of a current Wielder is extremely powerful," Dr. Immo said, still absently rubbing his reddened cheek.  
  
Sara passed his response along to Ian, adding *I'm not sure I like the sound of this plan of yours, Ian. Especially the me-giving-Irons-my- blood part.*  
  
*Please, bear with me, Sara,* he sent placatingly. *As your godfather suggested might be necessary, I'm playing this by ear. I promise to explain everything shortly.*  
  
"Hmmm," Ian mused aloud. "I fully expect that once he has recovered, he will be unable to resist attempting to coerce me into returning here -- by force if necessary. I will return, but I do not plan on remaining here very long. You see, Dr. Immo, I intend to win my freedom from my father once and for all. My loyalty no longer lies with him. I am the Wielder's Protector, and it is to her and her alone that I owe my allegiance. Father cannot accept this, but, if all goes according to plan, he will no longer have any choice in the matter. Do we have your cooperation?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," Dr. Immo answered without any hesitation whatsoever. "You have my full cooperation."  
  
*He said yes,* Sara said. *But can we really trust him?*  
  
*I believe we can,* he replied. *Now, let's go see my father before security catches on to the fact that they're watching a recording.*  
  
"I am very glad to hear you say that, Doctor," Ian said to Immo. "I will be in touch with you. Goodbye." *Sara, move closer to me so that I can follow you out,* he requested. She did, contriving to brush against him as she moved toward the door. He turned and followed her from the room.  
  
*My father's room should be two doors down on the right,* he told Sara. *Here is my plan: Once I see how bad off he appears to be, I'm going to plead with you to give him some of your blood, but you're going to act like you're reluctant to do so at first.*  
  
*Um, it won't be much of an act,* Sara told him. *Remember what Joe and Marie said about not caving in and giving him what he needs, Ian? It sure sounds to me like you're planning on doing exactly that.*  
  
He stopped short and turned to face her despite the fact that he couldn't see her expression. *Do you trust me, Sara?*  
  
*With my life,* she replied instantly.  
  
*Then trust me on this. After putting up a token resistance, you reluctantly agree to give him some of your blood, but only a single drop. There should be a lancet and some gauze pads in the supply cabinet; prick your finger and absorb the droplet of blood with a pad. I want you to start to give him the pad, but then suddenly change your mind. We'll argue briefly about this, but you must refuse to part with your blood and insist that we leave the estate immediately. I'll finally agree to escort you safely off the premises. However, you'll carelessly leave the lancet behind when we make good our escape. Dr. Immo should be able to get enough blood cells from it to prepare a single treatment. Thus, my father will still be beholden to you for more.*  
  
Sara nodded, setting aside her doubts for the moment. *I think I can handle that.*  
  
Ian took a deep breath. *Let's do this.*  
  
As before, Sara led the way, guiding Ian into the room without seeming to.  
  
Her first thought upon seeing Kenneth Irons was that he looked far worse in person. This impression was reinforced by the numerous IV solutions dripping into veins that were clearly visible through translucent skin the color and texture of aged parchment. The ominous sound of the life support equipment added to the aura of fragility surrounding the billionaire, and she had to forcibly remind herself that, according to Dr. Immo, the ventilator was just for show. Reluctantly, Sara sent Ian an image of the room and its ancient occupant. Close as she was to him, she sensed his involuntary shudder at the convincingly pitiful sight Irons made.  
  
"Father," Ian breathed, moving to his bedside and gently grasping one of his hands.  
  
At the sound of his voice, the old man's eyelids flickered and then opened, revealing eyes that were clouded by cataracts. With an effort, he focused on his son, and recognition filled the rheumy gaze.  
  
"Sara, he needs some of your blood," Ian said. "He will die without it."  
  
"Um, that's not exactly a convincing argument for sparing his life, Ian," Sara said coldly, echoing her words telepathically a heartbeat later. "Exactly the opposite, in fact. Think of it: we'd never have to worry about him trying to take back the Witchblade again. Why shouldn't I let him die?"  
  
"Because even though I know he does not deserve your mercy, I find I cannot condemn him to death," Ian whispered sadly.  
  
"But you'd be free of him," Sara protested. "Isn't that what you want? What we both want?"  
  
"Yes, but not like this," he murmured. "There is no honor in this kind of death."  
  
"Yeah, right, and Kenny's such an honorable guy, he wouldn't hesitate to stab me in the back if it meant he could regain control of the Witchblade," Sara said with real heat. "Plus, he beats you like a dog, Ian. Where's the honor in that?"  
  
"Please, Sara," Ian beseeched her. "Together, we will figure out some other way to defeat him. But, please, do not let him die like this. I am begging you."  
  
Cognizant that their presence here could be discovered at any moment, Sara finally relented. "Since it obviously means so much to you," she muttered, sighing, "I'll do it. But all he gets is a single drop of my blood. That's it." Pocketing the Palm Pilot, she walked over to what looked like a supply cabinet and began rifling through it.  
  
"This oughtta do the trick," she said, extracting a lancet and a cotton gauze pad. She pricked her fingertip and then quickly applied pressure to the miniscule wound with the pad, soaking up the drop of blood that had welled up but preventing any more from escaping. A quick glance at Irons confirmed that he was watching her closely.  
  
"I know I'm gonna regret this," she told him. "But if you know what's good for you, you'll leave me and Ian the hell alone. If you insist on continuing to interfere with our lives, or even think about threatening any of my friends and family, you'll never get another drop from me, so help me God. Do we have a bargain?"  
  
Irons' nearly bald head inclined a fraction in acquiescence, but Sara thought she glimpsed defiance in the pale blue eyes that stared up at her. She started to give him the bloody pad, but then hesitated.  
  
"What the hell am I thinking?" she muttered, as though to herself. Flashing an apologetic look at Ian that he couldn't see, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I can't go through with it, Nottingham."  
  
"But he will die, Sara!" Ian instantly protested.  
  
"Then so be it," she said implacably. "Besides, if the Witchblade really wanted him to survive, why would It have let him deteriorate like this? Did you ever think of that?"  
  
Ian shook his head. "The choice of whether or not he lives is yours, Sara. As the current Wielder, it is now your blood that has the power to rejuvenate him and extend his life."  
  
"Well, I choose to let the abusive bastard rot in hell," she said coldly, pocketing the blood-stained gauze pad and tossing the lancet in the trash. "Now, let's get the hell out of here before security discovers we're here."  
  
"Very well, but I will not stop appealing for his life until you change your mind or I learn of his death," Ian promised.  
  
"Fine," Sara said. "But I'm not gonna change my mind. Now, let's get going!" Then she noticed that Irons was pulling at the ventilator covering his mouth. *What's he doing now?* she asked Ian, describing the old man's actions.  
  
*I believe he's trying to speak.*  
  
The billionaire finally managed to dislodge the mouthpiece, revealing that the ventilator was a ruse.  
  
"Bi-i-i-i-t-c-h-h-h!" he breathed, glaring venomously at Sara.  
  
"That's right, Kenny," she smirked condescendingly, "you're my bitch now! How's it feel?"  
  
She relayed both Irons' insult and her pithy comeback to Ian.  
  
*Sara,* Ian warned her urgently, *if he's taunting you like that, it can only mean one thing: we're about to have company.*  
  
Sara pulled the forgotten handheld device from her coat pocket, glanced at it, and then did a double take. *Uh-oh, Ian. You're right: we've got incoming!*  
  
*We must leave immediately,* Ian said. *Reinforcements are definitely on the way.*  
  
Just then, a whirring sound came from above their heads, and Sara looked up to see an opening appear in the ceiling, from which a blinking strobe light and tiny speakers descended.  
  
*The fail-safe device has been activated,* Sara informed Ian, grabbing his arm and heading toward the door.  
  
*I know,* he replied, shuddering with pain. *The high-frequency sound waves are leaking through the earplugs. We must get to the elevator before the security team arrives, Sara.*  
  
"This . . . isn't . . . over, Wielder," Irons wheezed from behind them. "Ian . . . will . . . return to me. With . . . your blood . . . and the Witchblade!"  
  
"Yeah, we'll just see about that," Sara threw over her shoulder. "Bye, Kenny!"  
  
She and Ian raced down the hallway to the elevator. Ian supplied the code to the keypad, and Sara hurriedly entered it. It seemed to take an eternity for the light to turn to green from red, and for the keypad to spring upward. Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for them when she pressed the call button, because moments after they boarded the car, another set of elevator doors opened further down the hall from them, and half a dozen armed men piled out of it.  
  
"There they are!" one of them shouted, spotting them. "Shoot them!" He and his companions raised their weapons, but before they could pull the triggers, the elevator doors glided shut and the car began the to descend.  
  
Ian removed his sunglasses and peeled the tape from his eyelids. *That was close.*  
  
*Too close for comfort,* she agreed, sagging against the wall in relief. *They're gonna be right behind us, and they don't seem at all shy about using their guns.*  
  
*I am fairly certain their weapons were loaded with tranquilizer darts rather than bullets. My father wants us both alive,* Ian murmured  
  
*I'll bet he does,* Sara said darkly. *I'm his personal blood bank, and you're his favorite punching bag.*  
  
*Not anymore.* He put his sunglasses back on. *The security teams will undoubtedly be equipped with a portable strobe light,* he said in response to her curious look. *I have no wish to be rendered unconscious. The splitting headache the sound waves managed to give me despite being muted by the earplugs is punishment enough, don't you think?*  
  
*My poor baby,* Sara murmured. Moving closer to him, she reached up and rubbed his aching temples soothingly.  
  
*Thank you, my love,* he said, grasping one of her hands and pressing a grateful kiss to her palm. *For everything.*  
  
The elevator slowed perceptibly, and they broke apart, automatically moving to either side of the doorway in case of an ambush. But the tunnel was empty when the doors opened. Ian pried off the control panel and disconnected some wires, disabling the car.  
  
*That should slow them down,* he said. *But I'm afraid there might be another team waiting for us at the safe house. They can cover the distance much faster aboveground than we can down here. We may have a fight on our hands once we get there. Are you up for it?*  
  
*Bring it on,* Sara said, and the Witchblade amplified the anticipation she felt at the prospect of doing battle.  
  
More to come. Once again, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you for all of the feedback I've received. I do so love hearing from my peeps! In fact, as you all know by now, I'm something of a feedback glutton: the more, the merrier I am! Please, keep it coming! 


	61. Chapter 62

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Same as the preceding chapters.  
  
Author's Note: I must apologize for the inexcusably long delay between chapters. To be honest, I was more than a little intimidated by the prospect of having to write an action sequence, and kept putting it off! Hopefully, I didn't embarrass myself! Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 62.  
  
Just before the transport rounded the corner of the last turnoff, the Witchblade flared bright in warning, and Sara received a brief vision of a dozen heavily armed, body-armor-clad men blocking their exit to the surface.  
  
*Hold up, Ian! We've got company down here!* Sara warned Nottingham. *I counted 12 men.*  
  
*No surprise there,* he murmured, slowing the transport to a halt. *Please wait here for a moment, my Lady,* he requested, hopping out. After a quick look around the corner showed that about 30 yards separated them, Ian boldly strode into plain sight of the assembled men.  
  
"Lieutenant Hopkins," he acknowledged, instantly recognizing the former Navy Seal. 'A wise choice as my replacement,' he thought to himself. 'Hopkins is an experienced soldier with natural leadership ability whose military records show that's he's calm under pressure, which is why I recommended that he be put in charge of the estate's security in my absence. Obviously, father took my advice.'  
  
"Mr. Nottingham," the man replied, nodding. "I don't suppose you'd consider surrendering without a fight and willingly returning to the estate?" he asked hopefully.  
  
Sara saw the corners of Ian's lips curl upward briefly in one of his famous almost-smiles. "I am afraid not, Lieutenant."  
  
The other man nodded again. "I didn't think so, but it couldn't hurt to ask." He shrugged. "I guess we're gonna have to do this the hard way then."  
  
Now Ian inclined his head. "It would appear so. You should know that I have no wish to kill you or your men, but I will if I have to."  
  
"And we don't want to use deadly force against you if we can avoid it," the lieutenant responded, "but we have our orders." Truth be told, Graham Hopkins badly wanted to avoid having to fight Ian Nottingham if at all possible. The man's lethal reputation preceded him, and despite his claim to the contrary, Hopkins was not at all certain the 11 men he commanded would be enough to defeat the assassin. If he'd had his druthers, Hopkins would have brought twice as many men with him, but there had been numerous casualties during the battle with the Russians, and the ranks had been spread even thinner by Irons' insistence that three teams be sent out into the field in a vain attempt to track down and recapture Nottingham.  
  
'Where's the woman?' Graham thought to himself. 'Irons said Nottingham would have Detective Sara Pezzini with him.' The billionaire had also reluctantly admitted that his personal bodyguard and head of security had gone A.W.O.L., explaining that Nottingham had become infatuated with the beautiful homicide detective and that this infatuation had clouded his judgment, leading him to abandon his duties. Privately, Graham had found this extremely hard to believe. He'd had almost no interaction with Ian Nottingham since being hired by Vorschlag Industries a little over a year ago, but from the few encounters he had had, he'd gotten the distinct impression that the man was not the least bit interested in the female of the species. In fact, speculation ran rampant among the estate staff about the nature of the relationship between Kenneth Irons and his extremely intimidating and mysterious head of security. Whispered rumors suggested that it was much, much closer than simply employer and employee. So, when Mr. Irons had told him the reason why the assassin had disappeared, Graham had been highly skeptical about the veracity of the story, although he'd been careful not to let this show.  
  
However, his employer had gone on to explain that Detective Pezzini had in her possession something that belonged to him, an ancient artifact that he wanted back at any cost, even if it meant having to kill her to retrieve it. The former Navy Seal had been unable to hide his uneasiness at the thought of murdering a New York City homicide detective, but Irons had promised him that there would be no repercussions for him or his men if it came to that. He'd claimed that Sara Pezzini was a dirty cop who had stolen the priceless artifact -- a silver bracelet set with a large red stone -- from the museum where it had been on loan. The billionaire had told Hopkins that she wore the bracelet on her right wrist, and had stressed that it and the woman, dead or alive, were to be brought to him once Nottingham had been defeated.  
  
"You're outnumbered and out-armed, Nottingham," Graham tried reasoning with his predecessor as a last resort. "Surely, you realize that."  
  
"If it were just me that you and your men were dealing with I might have to concede that fact, Lieutenant Hopkins," Ian admitted. "However, I am not alone."  
  
Sara took this as her cue. Climbing out of the transport, she casually strolled to Ian's side.  
  
"Hello, boys," she purred. "Can I play, too?"  
  
"Detective Pezzini," Lieutenant Hopkins acknowledged her. "You have something that belongs to my employer. My orders are to return to the estate with you and Mr. Nottingham. Preferably alive."  
  
"Thanks for the gracious invite, but no thanks," Sara declined. "We'll just be leaving now."  
  
Hopkins shook his head. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I can't just let the two of you walk out of here."  
  
"Okay, but just to be fair, I gotta warn you that this thing doesn't have a stun setting," Sara informed him, holding up her right arm and pushing back her sleeve to reveal that the bracelet Irons had described graced her wrist. "And once It gets a taste of blood, It tends to go berserk, taking me along for the ride."  
  
Puzzlement must have shown on the faces of Hopkins and his men because she and Nottingham exchanged meaningful looks, and then Detective Pezzini said, "Why am I not surprised that your shithead of a boss left out a few very important details about me and my pretty bracelet, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Like what?" Hopkins queried cautiously, suddenly getting a very bad feeling about the whole situation.  
  
"Like the fact that this is no ordinary bracelet and I'm no ordinary woman. It's an ancient, sentient weapon of mass destruction called the Witchblade, and I'm Its Wielder." As if sensing the impending violence, the Witchblade suddenly transformed into an armored gauntlet that bristled with nasty-looking spikes, and gleaming silver metal rapidly expanded to cover Sara's arm to the shoulder. "Still wanna rumble?" she smirked.  
  
Several of Hopkins' men shot each other nervous looks, but their leader refused to back down. "I have my orders, Detective," he said resolutely. He nodded toward one of his men, and abruptly a strobe light was activated. To his credit, the young commanding officer didn't show a hint of dismay when the light had no effect whatsoever on Nottingham.  
  
"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you," Sara shrugged. "Now, who wants to get their ass kicked first?"  
  
Then she froze as a brief vision assailed her. *They've gotten the elevator you disabled working again,* she informed Ian telepathically moments later. *Two backup teams are hot on our trail, moving at double time, which means they'll probably be here in less than 15 minutes. We better get a move on.*  
  
*Let's do this,* Ian replied.  
  
In the blink of an eye, Sara's entire body was covered in armor. "Ladies first!" she yelled, and charged down the corridor.  
  
At Hopkins' signal, his men opened fire, first with tranquilizer darts, but when those bounced harmlessly off Sara's armor, they began firing bullets, most of which she deflected with astonishing speed and ease. Those that eluded her metal-clad hands and arms ricocheted off her back at the shooters, forcing them to stop firing. Seconds later, she was among them, and one by one, men started falling. None of them got back up.  
  
Sara targeted the soldier that had the misfortune to be holding the strobe light, knocking it from his hand before rendering him unconscious with a single blow to his helmeted head. The light shattered on the floor and stopped flashing. Dimly, she was aware that her Protector had yet to join the battle, and she felt a surge of satisfaction that he so obviously believed she could handle herself. His pride in her was palpable, and it warmed her even as the Witchblade-induced bloodlust reared its ugly head.  
  
Ian deliberately hung back for a couple of minutes so that he could observe the Wielder in action. She was magnificent in her gleaming metal armor, although she moved so fast, even his eyes had difficulty following her. Her natural fighting ability already made her a formidable foe, but when combined with Witchblade-enhanced speed, strength, and agility, she truly was a sight to behold as she cut through the phalanx of soldiers like a hot knife through butter. With a thrill of excitement, he realized that once she received formal training on how to expertly wield the ancient weapon's myriad forms, she would be damn near invincible. Ian clearly sensed the bloodlust rising in her, but was glad to see that she was thus far using restraint in besting her opponents, disabling rather than killing them as she so very easily could have. These young men didn't deserve to die; they were just following orders, and thanks to his father, were wholly unprepared for the savagery of a True Wielder. Then Ian heard Hopkins order his men to regroup for one last assault, and he decided that it was time for him to join the battle.  
  
*Thanks for softening them up for me, my Love,* Ian sent to Sara, *but I think I can take it from here.*  
  
Somehow, the familiar sound of her Protector's "voice" in her head enabled Sara to rein in the berserker rage that had been threatening to consume her, and now it was her turn to admire his fighting prowess. She turned her head to watch as Nottingham took on the remaining men, the hapless soldier that she held pinned against the wall by the throat forgotten.  
  
Moving with inhuman speed and a predator's deadly grace, the former assassin used a combination of martial arts moves and sheer strength to subdue his foes. Although expertly trained in hand-to-hand combat, the men were simply no match for him. He wasn't even breathing hard when the last of his opponents succumbed to a zap from the taser in his gloved hand.  
  
That left Lieutenant Graham Hopkins as the last man standing -- just barely. He was reeling from a vicious backhand blow to the face by a metal- encased hand, and blood was streaming from his nose, which in all likelihood was broken. It certainly felt like it was.  
  
Carelessly, Sara dropped the now unconscious man she'd been throttling and turned to face the lieutenant. "The situation isn't looking too good for you, Lieutenant Hopkins," she murmured, glancing around at his fallen comrades. She couldn't tell for sure, but she thought most of them were merely unconscious rather than dead, much to her relief. But they definitely weren't going to be happy campers when and if they eventually came to. The sound of breaking bones coupled with screams of agony had echoed through the tunnel with resounding clarity throughout the skirmish. Now only a few groans and muffled whimpers of pain could be heard. "Kenny's gonna be mighty disappointed in you."  
  
"I can make this quick and relatively painless," Ian told Hopkins, holding up the taser. "It is up to you."  
  
"Take your best shot," the former Navy Seal said defiantly, assuming a rather wobbly battle stance. He shook his head in an obvious attempt to clear it, sending droplets of blood flying.  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake! We don't have time for this macho bullshit," Sara growled, aware that they were expecting company any minute. She pointed her gauntleted right hand at him, and suddenly Hopkins stiffened, glazed eyes widening in a transfixed stare.  
  
"Interesting," Ian commented. He glided closer to the enthralled man and placed the taser against his neck. There was an audible "Zzzzt!," and Hopkins dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.  
  
"Well, that's a new one," Sara murmured, eyeing her metal-encased hand askance. "I guess It does have a stun setting after all. Who knew?" Abruptly, the Witchblade returned to Its deceptively innocuous bracelet form, Its prodigious appetite for violence whetted for the moment.  
  
"Shall we?" Ian said, gesturing toward the waiting elevator.  
  
"Gladly," Sara breathed, stepping over the slew of motionless bodies without a backward glance.  
  
"You did very well, my Lady," Ian complimented her once the elevator doors had closed and the car began its ascent, "as I knew you would."  
  
"You're no slouch yourself, Cowboy," Sara grinned. She eyed his long, lean body hungrily. "I'm suddenly so horny, it's not even funny!" she blurted out.  
  
Startled hazel eyes met hers. "I believe it is the after effects of the bloodlust," he muttered, feeling his body begin to respond to the heat in her smoldering green gaze. "A massive amount of endorphins are flooding your brain at the moment."  
  
Sara shook her head. "Uh-unh. It's you, lover. Seeing you in action made me wanna --"  
  
"Move to the side, Sara," Ian reluctantly interrupted her, mindful of the fact that they were not yet in the clear. "There may be an ambush waiting for us up here." As the elevator slowed perceptibly, he unhooked a flash grenade from his weapons harness. Moments later, the car came to a stop and the inner doors parted to reveal the vault-like outer door.  
  
"Cover your eyes," he cautioned, keying the security code into the keypad in the center of the door. He pulled the grenade's pin as the heavy door slowly began to swing open, and then tossed the explosive device through the still-narrow opening. Seconds later, it detonated with a concussive "WHOMP!" and a blinding flash of light, and then Ian dove through the doorway.  
  
After a minute, when Sara didn't hear any gunfire or shouts, she cautiously poked her head around the side of the elevator just as her Protector reappeared.  
  
"The basement is all clear," he told her, reentering the elevator. He pried open the control panel and detached some wires, disabling the car. "How close are the mobile teams?"  
  
"You tell me," Sara said, extracting the handheld device from her coat pocket and handing it to him. "You're way more familiar with the routes leading here than I am."  
  
Ian glanced at the grids. "We do not have much time. Let us hope there are not more men upstairs," he murmured, heading for the stairs. "Please wait down here until I give the all clear, my Lady."  
  
"Um, the Witchblade isn't going off, so I think we're okay," she ventured, following him.  
  
"Humor me," he said. "Please?"  
  
Sara sighed. "Okay."  
  
He ascended the steps and keyed in the door's security code. She blinked as one moment he was standing at the top of the stairs and then in the next he was gone. Two minutes later, he sent *The place is deserted. Let's leave before the field operatives show up, which could be any minute now. Luckily, nobody thought to disable our vehicle.*  
  
*Here I come!* Sara replied, sprinting up the stairs. The lock clicked as she reached the top of the stairs, and Ian pulled the door open. She took a moment to once again admire the elegant lines and spacious dimensions of the gorgeous house as she followed Ian out to the garage and the idling SUV.  
  
Several tense minutes passed before they had traveled what felt like a safe distance from the neighborhood and were convinced that they hadn't been followed. Still, neither of them relaxed until they reached the I-95 and began heading toward the city.  
  
Sara turned toward Ian. "Although what I'd really like to do is tear your clothes off and have my way with you, I'm gonna call Danny," she informed him. "I've gotta come clean to him about the Witchblade and us, and there's no time like the present."  
  
Ian smiled at her candor and then nodded. "Agreed." Briefly taking his eyes off the road, he met her gaze. "And me, too," he added huskily.  
  
Taking out her cell phone, Sara dialed her partner's home phone before she could lose her nerve.  
  
"Woo residence," Danny answered on the second ring.  
  
"Hey, Danny, it's me, Pez."  
  
"Hey, Partner. How's it going? You enjoying your days off?"  
  
"Hell yeah. How 'bout you?"  
  
"Well, to tell you the truth," he lowered his voice, "it was fun being snowed in for the first couple of days, but we're all starting to get a touch of cabin fever. To make matters worse, the weatherman is saying we might get another foot of snow tonight."  
  
"Yeah, I heard that, too," Sara said, leaning forward in her seat to peer up at the sky through the windshield. The day had started out bright and sunny, but it had become overcast while she and Ian had been underground. "Listen, Danny, do you think Lee would mind if I swung by and took you out to lunch? I need to talk to you about something really important."  
  
"Hold on a minute, and I'll go ask her." She heard him put the phone down.  
  
"He's asking the missus if he can come out and play," Sara informed Ian, who nodded.  
  
"Pez?" Danny came back on the line.  
  
"Yeah, I'm still here."  
  
"She said it's okay. Una will be napping by then and Mija is getting ready to head over to a friend's house up the block, so Lee will have some alone time, which I know she'll enjoy," he said a touch ruefully.  
  
"Great, we--, uh, I'll pick you up in about an hour and a half."  
  
"So, are we gonna take public transportation or what?" Danny queried, thankfully letting her slip of the tongue go unchallenged, "'cause I haven't dug the car out yet."  
  
"Um, no. I've, uh, borrowed a friend's car," she fibbed.  
  
There was a slight pause. "Uh-hunh. Well, I'll see you in a little while, Pez," her partner said. "Bye."  
  
"Bye, Danny." She put the phone back in her pocket and then looked at her Protector's profile. "First, I'm gonna tell him about the Witchblade, and then I'm gonna tell him about us." She hesitated. "I don't think it would be a good idea for you to be there when we finally get around to discussing your past."  
  
"Agreed," Ian murmured. "However, may I suggest that you have this discussion in private? It would not do for your conversation to be overheard."  
  
"Yeah, you're right. As you know, Danny doesn't live that far from me. We'll get takeout and bring it back to my place."  
  
"You can drop me off at your loft so that I can make certain it is safe for you to return there, then you can go get Detective Woo. I will wait in the alley for you to return. Leave the car keys in your mailbox. I will retrieve them once you and your partner have gone upstairs," Ian told her.  
  
"Our talk will probably take a while," Sara pointed out. "What will you do in the meantime?"  
  
He cocked his head thoughtfully but didn't take his eyes off the road. "Perhaps I will go visit Gabriel," he said. "Do you think he would mind?"  
  
"Why don't you call him and see if he's busy?"  
  
"Perhaps I will do that."  
  
They rode in silence for a while.  
  
"Ian," Sara said hesitantly, "you're gonna return to the estate tonight, aren't you?"  
  
He nodded, glancing at her. "Yes, Sara, I am."  
  
"I don't want you to go," she whispered.  
  
"And I do not want to leave you," he told her. "But just as you must confront your partner with the truth, I must do the same with my father. The sooner I begin the process of winning my freedom from him, the sooner we can be together again, this time for good."  
  
"If he lays one finger on you, I'm gonna beat the crap outta him, so help me God," Sara said fiercely.  
  
"I promised you that I will not allow him to beat me again, Sara, and I meant it," Ian reiterated. "So, you do not have to worry about me on that account."  
  
She hunched one shoulder. "I'll always worry about you, my love," she admitted softly, "especially where Kenny's concerned. I wouldn't put it past him to try to kill you once he realizes that you're eventually gonna leave him to be with me. And I'm convinced that even if Joe's plan works like a charm, he'll never stop interfering with our lives."  
  
Ian sighed. "Unfortunately, that is a distinct possibility. He is obsessed with controlling the Witchblade, and will be until the day he dies."  
  
"Which, at this rate, might be never!" Sara said unhappily. "If you do end up hanging with Gabriel, maybe you wouldn't mind asking him his opinion on why the Witchblade apparently wants your father to stay in the picture," she suggested. "Gabe's pretty well versed on Witchblade lore, so he might be able to come up with a theory about Irons' role in the scheme of things."  
  
"Yes, I had noticed that about him," Ian murmured thoughtfully.  
  
A sudden realization struck Sara. 'Well, I'll be! Gabriel must be who Boudica was referring to when she mentioned somebody called the Mythkeeper in that vision I had yesterday. She said that I already know him well and that I trust him implicitly and have ever since the day I met him. Gabriel fits that description to a tee,' she mused to herself.  
  
"Why are you smiling, my love?" Ian queried, catching the flash of white teeth out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Hmmm? Oh, I just had an epiphany about Gabriel," she said, finally giving in to the urge to touch him. Reaching over, she tucked a strand of soft, dark hair behind his ear. Several had managed to escape restraint during the battle and now curled fetchingly around his face. She quivered in lightning-quick response when he captured her hand in his and pressed warm lips to her fingertips.  
  
"What sort of epiphany?" he asked, entwining her fingers with his.  
  
"Yesterday, when I asked the Witchblade for permission to tell my friends and family about It and me being Its Wielder, a woman who called herself Boudica appeared in my vision," Sara told him. "She claimed to have once been a True Wielder a long time ago. I was curious about who she'd been, so I asked her what her story was, but she told me to ask somebody called the Mythkeeper about her. She said I already knew and trusted this person, which, of course, narrowed the field down considerably," she said wryly. "I just now realized that she must have meant Gabriel."  
  
Ian nodded. "I am familiar with the legend of the Mythkeeper," he informed her. "Although my father never referred to Gabriel by that title, I am fairly certain he had already identified him as such. I believe that is why he felt it was necessary to send me to attempt to intimidate him into no longer supplying you with information about the Witchblade."  
  
"Yeah, it doesn't surprise me that Kenny wants to be the only one doling out info. He really is a raging control freak, isn't he?"  
  
"You have no idea," Ian said grimly.  
  
"No, but I'm beginning to get one, and it's not a pretty picture." She untangled her fingers from his and massaged his right temple soothingly. "How's your headache?"  
  
"Better. And I am happy to report that my shoulder did not give me any problems while I was fighting."  
  
"I'm glad to hear that. Did I mention how freaking unbelievable you are as a fighter, Ian? I'm pretty sure those poor bastards wouldn't have stood a chance even if I hadn't softened them up for you. You gotta teach me some of your moves."  
  
"I would be glad to. You already possess great reflexes and abundant natural fighting ability, my Lady, but once you truly learn how to fight with the Witchblade, you will become virtually unbeatable."  
  
"Then what do I need a Protector for?" she teased him, tugging on his earlobe.  
  
"Wild monkey sex?" he hazarded, straight-faced.  
  
Sara laughed. "You got that right!" Then she sobered. "God, I'm gonna miss waking up in your arms," she said softly.  
  
"And I can hardly bear the thought of being apart from you," Ian whispered, grasping her hand and holding it against his heart. *In fact, the only thing that will make it bearable is our ability to communicate with each other like this,* he sent.  
  
*Oh, yeah, that's right! Hey, I just had a fantastic idea!* she said excitedly. *We can have telepathic sex! It'll sorta be like phone sex, but waaaay better!*  
  
*'Phone sex'?* Ian queried, glancing at her curiously. *Sounds . . . intriguing.*  
  
*Oh, you have so very much to learn, young Jedi,* Sara grinned, shaking her head. *And I'm so gonna enjoy teaching you!*  
  
More to come. Once again, I must extend my sincerest gratitude to all of you who took the time to leave me feedback. If you haven't figured it out by now, I've got to tell you that I'm a feedback whore! So, please, keep it coming! *Spoiler Alert!* All of you Danny Woo and Gabriel Bowman fans will be in seventh heaven soon! (With an emphasis on soon! :)) dragongrrl 


	62. Chapter 63

A Family Affair  
  
Disclaimer: Same old, same old.  
  
Author's Note: Once again, I must apologize for the long delay between chapters. Real life really threw me for a loop. Plus, my J.O.B. has been keeping me extremely busy as of late, which sort of drains my creative batteries. I haven't had the energy or inclination to write until just recently. My apologies. WARNING: this chapter contains explicit sexual situations and language, and therefore is unsuitable for those who are offended by that sort of thing or are underage. You've been warned, so PLEASE don't report me to ff.net! Enjoy!  
  
Chapter 63.  
  
The closer they got to the city, the more nervous Sara became about her impending talk with her best friend and partner, Danny Woo. She was very afraid that he'd condemn her for her choice of a mate because of Ian's nefarious past. Having partnered with the man for going on eight years, she knew him extremely well, and she was positive that he would not react well when she revealed that Ian used to assassinate people for a living -- not to mention the fact that, as her Protector, he wouldn't hesitate to kill again in defense of her.  
  
"Just out of curiosity, Ian," she said abruptly, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them, "how many people would you say you've assassinated? "  
  
Green-shot light-brown eyes left the road for a moment and examined her expression. "I can tell you precisely how many of my father's enemies I have killed, Sara," he replied. "But are you sure you want to know?"  
  
She shook her head. "No," she admitted softly, "I'm not sure. But Danny will want to know. Of that, I am sure."  
  
Ian nodded resignedly. "I suspected as much. I also suspect that a single murder is one too many in Detective Woo's book, regardless of the circumstances, which means that divulging my past to your partner will in all likelihood serve to alienate him from you."  
  
Apprehensive green eyes studied his profile. "But if I'm really gonna come clean about the Witchblade, I've gotta do it right, and that means telling Danny everything. Partners don't keep secrets from each other. Neither do friends. He's my best friend, Ian. Keeping quiet about what's been going on in my life these past few months has been hard as hell on both of us. Our friendship has suffered from it, and our partnership has, too. I owe it to him, and to myself, to tell him everything," she said, aware that it sounded very much like she was trying to convince herself that what she was about to do was, in fact, the right thing.  
  
"Even if it destroys your friendship?" Ian asked her quietly.  
  
Sara grimaced as though from a sudden, sharp pain. "I gotta believe Danny can handle the truth," she whispered. "The alternative is unthinkable."  
  
"I feel obligated to point out that he may not be able to accept the reality of your being the Wielder of the Witchblade and all that it entails," Ian said bluntly. _'Particularly the fact that you've hooked up with a confessed murderer like me,'_ he thought bleakly, once again feeling a stab of remorse at having put her in this position.  
  
"Well, things sure as hell can't go on between me and him like they have been," Sara sighed. "Danny's not stupid, Ian. He's known for some time that something's up with me. It's only because we've been friends and partners for so many years that he's let all the weirdness slide for as long as he has." She shook her head resolutely. "No, I don't have any other choice. I've gotta tell him everything if we're gonna make this -- us -- work."  
  
Ian nodded again. "I agree. However, I will understand if you decide to put off telling him about our relationship until later. Revealing the existence of the Witchblade and your role as Its Wielder is enough of a shock for one day, no?"  
  
But she shook her head again. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides," she smiled ruefully, "all he'll have to do is take one look at me and he'll know I've gotten laid. Did I mention that he knows me really, really well?"  
  
"You do have a satisfied glow about you," Ian remarked with an answering smile.  
  
Her dark brows shot up. "Do I? Well, looks can be deceiving, 'cause I haven't had my fill of you yet," she murmured, eyeing him lustfully. _'And somehow I don't think I ever will,'_ she added somberly to herself. A small part of her was alarmed by how quickly she'd become besotted with this man whom, less than a week ago, she'd thought of as her freakish stalker -- whenever she had bothered to think of him at all. How very much had changed since then.  
  
"I hope you never will," Ian said softly, almost as if he'd read her mind. "For I know I will never tire of making love with you, Sara. There has never been, nor will there ever be, anyone else for me. Not since the first time I laid eyes on you."  
  
Sara made a frustrated gesture. "But how can you be so sure?" she protested. "Especially since you've had nothing to compare me to." _'And you're darn right there never will be anybody else!'_ she added silently, a sudden, fierce surge of possessiveness toward him catching her off guard.  
  
Myriad emotions darkened the changeable hazel eyes that met hers briefly. "As soon as I saw you, I felt an immediate connection, as if a jolt of electricity had passed through my body. In that instant, I knew I was yours, and would be until the day I died. 'Here is a woman who is worthy of being called a True Wielder,' I said to myself. And when the Witchblade chose you minutes later, I knew my instincts had been right, and that it was my destiny to fight by your side," Ian told her.  
  
"There you go again, making me out to be the greatest thing since sliced bread!" Sara said, mild exasperation coloring her tone. "That halo around my head must have become tarnished real fast after you met me and I treated you like shit," she murmured, squirming a little as she remembered how badly she'd behaved toward him.  
  
"I cannot lie to you," Ian acknowledged softly, "your obvious dislike and distrust of me hurt. A lot. But let me hasten to add that I do not blame you for it. No, that honor I reserve solely for my father," he said darkly. "I knew that it was he you truly mistrusted, and since I was his messenger, you understandably tarred me with the same brush. As the days passed, a deep-seated resentment toward him for his presumption in attempting to control you, a True Wielder, took root in my heart. And when I discovered my true calling as your champion and Protector, my resentment blossomed into rebellion. I began to defy him by helping you out whenever it was in my power to do so.  
  
Glancing over at her again, Ian smiled, but it did not reach his expressive eyes. "At first, my budding attraction to you amused him, and he carelessly dismissed it as nothing more than a childish infatuation. You see, he was well aware of how ill-equipped I was to win you over, so I do not think it ever entered his mind that you might actually come to trust me, much less reciprocate my feelings -- especially since his link to the Witchblade, and, hence, to you, let him sense your anger and distaste whenever we chanced to meet."  
  
"God," Sara groaned, "don't remind me of what a bitch I was to you! I feel guilty enough about it already."  
  
He reached over and cupped her cheek tenderly. "That was not my intention, my love," he said quietly. "As I said, I do not blame you for your hostility. I had done nothing to deserve your trust or, for that matter, your affection. In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, I still find it hard to believe that you have fallen in love with me."  
  
"Believe it," she said, turning her head and pressing her lips against his palm. "I'm yours, warts and all."  
  
Ian frowned. "You keep mentioning these warts, but I have yet to discover any of them on your person -- and I have examined your body very, very thoroughly."  
  
"Uh, that was just a figure of speech. What I meant was --"  
  
"I was only joking, Sara," he interrupted her, one of his patented almost-smiles playing about his well-shaped lips.  
  
"Oh." She rolled her shoulders uneasily. "Still, I wonder if you really know what you're getting into here. According to Danny, Vicky, and Jake, I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with. I'm moody, judgmental, sarcastic, and quick-tempered -- and that's when I'm not PMS-ing!"  
  
"You left out compassionate, honorable, brave, intelligent, and infinitely desirable."  
  
Sara couldn't help smiling in the face of such devotion. "Says you."  
  
"I had better be the only one who says the latter," Ian agreed, "for I would take extreme umbrage if another man were to express desire for you." Although his tone remained light, there was a definite edge to his words, and something dark and dangerous flitted behind his eyes for just an instant.  
  
"Hmmm, there's a scary thought: A jealous, genetically enhanced former assassin. Lucky for all those unsuspecting horndogs out there, I only have eyes for my Protector," Sara hastened to reassure him.  
  
"And what lovely eyes they are."  
  
"Flattery will get you everywhere, you smooth-talking devil, you," Sara grinned, reaching over to tuck a wayward tendril of dark, curling hair behind his ear.  
  
They exited the FDR Drive and slowed to a stop at a red light. Ian slowly leaned toward her, and Sara noticed that the gold flecks in his extraordinary eyes glowed like embers in a fire. Then their lips met in a sizzling kiss that all-too-soon was interrupted by the horns of the impatient drivers behind them when the light turned green. With obvious reluctance, Ian broke off the kiss and took his foot off the brake.  
  
"I don't suppose we have time for a quickie?" Sara asked hopefully, pulse racing.  
  
"Your partner is waiting for you, and I must make certain that both your loft and the vicinity are secure before you return here with him," Ian pointed out, stopping the SUV several blocks from her building. "Besides, when it comes to making love with you, I do not like to rush."  
  
Sara wiggled her brows at him. "Ah, but sometimes rushing is good. Allow me to demonstrate." She reached over and started to unbuckle his belt, fingers deliberately brushing the prominent bulge in his pants in the process.  
  
"Here?" Ian asked, glancing around nervously. "One of my father's security teams may be patrolling the area, Sara, and they have our vehicle's description and plate number."  
  
Sara glanced at the Witchblade's quiescent stone and then out the window at the deserted street before shaking her head dismissively. "Nope. Witchy isn't sounding any alarms and nobody's around," she said, "We're good to go." She deftly unzipped his trousers.  
  
"But this is not even a legal parking space!" he protested weakly.  
  
"Since only nonessential personnel are supposed to be out on the roads because of the blizzard, I don't think we have to worry about traffic cops," she reassured him, finally freeing her prize. "Why, hello there, Mr. Hoody! I see you missed me as much as I missed you!"  
  
Ian emitted a fractured groan as, without further ado, she bent over and took him in her mouth. "God, Sara!" he groaned as her head began bobbing energetically. Within moments, her slick lips and agile tongue had him rock hard.  
  
"Slide your seat back all the way," she commanded, glancing up at his flushed and perspiring face with a wicked grin.  
  
He did as requested, and reaching over his iron-muscled thighs, Sara located the lever on the side of his seat that let the seatback recline.  
  
Abruptly, Ian found himself staring up at the SUV's ceiling. He heard the sound of a zipper and then clothing rustling, and raised his head to see that Sara had somehow managed to shimmy out of her jeans and panties in about ten seconds flat. Then she was straddling him. Grasping his rigid length, she guided him to the entrance of her body, and he hissed with delight as the humid heat of her tight sheath slowly enveloped him. But this marked the end of her restraint: She began moving at an insistent pace as she leaned over him, bracing her hands on the seatback.  
  
"Too fast!" Ian gasped, feeling his release begin building with shameful swiftness.  
  
"That's the point!" Sara panted, dimly aware that the SUV was rocking rhythmically and that the windows had started to fog over.  
  
Ian was surprised to realize that instead of inhibiting him, the riskiness of the situation actually added to his excitement. Grasping the sides of the car seat for dear life, he began raising his hips to meet her downstroke. One of his last coherent thoughts was that although her oversized cable-knit sweater thankfully hid their nakedness from view, it would be patently obvious to any passersby just what they were doing.  
  
Sara moaned loudly, her movements becoming frantic, as the head of his enormous cock began hitting her G-spot. Seconds later, a climax of epic proportions gripped her, and throwing back her head, she let out a throaty cry, which was echoed by Ian's shout of completion.  
  
"That, my young Jedi knight, was a quickie," she breathed a scant minute later, sitting up. "This concludes your lesson for the day."  
  
Ian was gazing dreamily up at the ceiling. "That . . ." dazed hazel eyes met hers, "was phenomenal," he sighed, his breathing slowly returning to normal. "Thank you, Sara." Tiny quakes of pleasure still radiated outward from where their bodies remained joined, and he felt drugged with bliss.  
  
Sara leaned forward again and pressed a brief kiss to his lips. "Glad you liked it," she smiled, nuzzling his face and inhaling his wonderful scent. "But I've gotta get going if I'm gonna meet Danny close to when I said I would."  
  
Loathe to break their union, Ian reflexively grasped her slender thighs as she sat up again and started to rise up off of him. "Wait!" he pleaded. "Just stay like this a minute longer."  
  
"Can't," she said, dismounting and scooting back over into the passenger seat. "That would violate the ten-minute rule."  
  
"'The ten-minute rule'?" he queried, raising himself up on his elbows to watch her fetch her undies and jeans out of the foot well.  
  
"Yeah," she smirked, smoothing out her rolled-up panties. "If it takes longer than ten minutes, start to finish, it's technically not a quickie!"  
  
Frowning skeptically, he tucked himself back into his long johns and briefs and zipped up. "You made that up!" he mock accused her, returning his seatback to an upright position.  
  
Sara grinned at him. "Did not."  
  
"Hmph." Ian buckled his belt. "I suppose there is also a time constraint on this phone sex you mentioned earlier," he mused. "Except for nights and weekends, of course."  
  
Green eyes widened in surprise, and then Sara burst out laughing. "You're really funny, Nottingham, you know that?" she gasped a full two minutes later, wiping tears from her eyes. "I gotta remember that one."  
  
Ian grinned happily. He so adored making her laugh. Abruptly, he remembered how he had once begrudged Gabriel Bowman his seemingly effortless ability to do the same. _'What I really ought to have done is thank him,'_ he thought, time and changed circumstances allowing him to be magnanimous toward the younger man. _'There's been far too little laughter in Sara's life lately.'_  
  
Sara wriggled into her underwear and jeans, then tugged on and tied her boots. "Okay, I should be back with Danny in about 45 minutes," she said, shrugging into her down jacket and pulling her knit hat over her gleaming chestnut hair. "I'll leave the car keys in my mailbox like you said."  
  
"Very well," Ian murmured, opening the driver-side door and getting out. He felt invigorated by their lovemaking but also famished, and wondered whether he should impose on Gabriel for something to eat -- assuming, of course, the younger man was agreeable to the idea of Ian visiting him that afternoon. It was then he recalled ordering groceries for Sara the day before the blizzard had hit. He'd left instructions for the building's superintendent to be contacted upon delivery. Hopefully, the food had been delivered and any perishable items had been put away by the super, whom Ian knew had a key to the loft for just such contingencies. _'Well, I'll find out soon enough,'_ he mused, pulling on his hat and gloves.  
  
Sara hopped out and came around to the driver's side. "See you in a few hours, my love," she said, raising her face to his for a farewell kiss.  
  
Ian gladly obliged, then watched as she got behind the wheel and adjusted the driver's seat to suit her shorter legs. But before she could drive off, he tapped on the still-foggy window.  
  
"Yeah?" she said, rolling it down.  
  
"Seventeen," he said quietly.  
  
"Seventeen what?" she frowned in puzzlement.  
  
"You said Danny would want to know exactly how many people I have assassinated," he said, his unflinching gaze holding hers.  
  
"Oh." Some of the color drained from her cheeks, but, to his vast relief, Ian could not detect even a hint of condemnation in her green, green eyes. "Thanks," she murmured, then added, "Please be careful out there, Ian."  
  
"Always, my love."  
  
"Bye!" Sara rolled the window back up and pulled away. When she glanced in the rearview mirror moments later, she was not at all surprised to see that he'd vanished without a trace. _'The man's dressed in black from head to toe,_' she mused, _'which means he should stick out like a sore thumb against all this snow. But, noooo! Not my Protector! Poof! Like magic, he's gone.'_ She shook her head ruefully. _'My enemies don't stand a freaking chance!'  
_  
Naturally, this last thought reminded her of what Nottingham had just told her. Sara's initial reaction to his revelation had been surprise: She'd expected the body count to be much, much higher. After all, this _was_ Kenneth Irons they were talking about. The man probably made a dozen new enemies before breakfast! The recent clash with the Russians only served to underscore this. From what Ian had told her, they'd been justified in their desire for retribution against the egomaniacal billionaire. A cold shiver went up and down Sara's spine as she thought about what might have happened to her Protector had she not come to his rescue that night. Irons sure as hell had a lot to answer for, Sara thought grimly for the umpteenth time in the past few days, and she spent the next few minutes fantasizing about him getting his long overdue comeuppance.  
  
As she got closer to Danny's home, she realized that she no longer felt as anxious about telling him about Ian's past -- mainly because she was going to make damn sure he knew who the real villain was in the grand scheme of things: Kenneth Irons.  
  
A few minutes later, she double-parked the SUV on the street in front of her partner's apartment building and got out. Glumly, she eyed the enormous mound of plowed snow that was between her and the sidewalk. But Danny must have been looking out for her arrival because suddenly he appeared in the building's vestibule.  
  
"Hey, Pez," he greeted her, pulling on his gloves as he exited the glass and steel doors.  
  
"Hey, Woo." With some amusement, she watched him stagger through the deep snow.  
  
They hugged when he finally reached the street. "Where we going?" he asked.  
  
"I thought we'd get takeout and then head back to my place, if that's okay with you?" she asked, opening the car door.  
  
"Fine by me." Danny went around to the passenger side, brushing clumps of snow from his jeans and stamping his booted feet before climbing inside. He glanced around the SUV's luxuriously appointed interior. "Nice ride."  
  
"Yeah," Sara murmured noncommittally, fastening her seatbelt. "How about Thai food? Hopefully, my favorite place is open."  
  
"Sounds good," he said, buckling up. "You buying?"  
  
"Of course," she smiled. She felt his eyes on her as she put the car in drive and pulled away.  
  
"Do I even have to ask who the lucky guy is?" he said sardonically.  
  
Sara shook her head ruefully. _'Less than a minute. That's gotta be a record,'_ she thought to herself. "Okay, so I jumped Nottingham's bones," she admitted, blushing. "Now, can we please skip the part where you say 'I told you so'?"  
  
Sniggering gleefully, Danny shook his head. "Nuh-unh. I told you so! I told you so!" he chanted annoyingly. "I so knew he was your type!" But then he frowned. "But I thought you said he was badly hurt during the battle with those Russians?"  
  
Sara winced. _'Shit. I should have seen that coming. It's what makes him such a great detective: he never misses a thing!'_ "Um, yeah, that's partly what I wanted to talk to you about," she reluctantly admitted. "But not until after we eat, okay? I don't wanna ruin your appetite."  
  
"Hmmm. Sounds serious," Danny murmured, sobering. "So, this is Nottingham's car, hunh?" he asked, thankfully changing the subject.  
  
"Sort of." She shrugged. "Technically, it belongs to that asshole Kenneth Irons."  
  
"Oh." He leaned over to look at the odometer. "Wow. I don't think I've ever ridden in a car with less than 50,000 miles on it, let alone one with less than 1,000." She heard him inhale deeply. "I just love that new car smell, don't you?"  
  
Sara smiled secretively as she recalled the way the car had smelled not too long ago. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she could detect a lingering trace of passion in the air. Her slender body quivered at the memory of her and Ian's feverishly quick but immensely satisfying coupling.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the Thai restaurant that Sara regularly ordered takeout from. She was glad to see that it was open for business.  
  
"There's no place to park, so one of us is gonna have to stay behind the wheel, and since I'm already here, would you mind?" she said, pulling some money out of her jacket pocket.  
  
"Wish I'd worn my snowshoes," Danny grumbled good-naturedly, pocketing the money. "Your usual, Madam?"  
  
"Yes, please!" She could practically taste the lemongrass chicken already.  
  
"Be right back." He got out.  
  
{Ian?} Sara sent as soon as her partner disappeared inside the small establishment.  
  
{Yes, my love?} he responded instantly.  
  
{Is everything okay?}  
  
{Yes. There's no sign of a security team in the area, nor does it appear that anybody is watching the loft.}  
  
{Good, 'cause me and Danny are only a few blocks away. He's ordering lunch as we speak.}  
  
{I'll be waiting in the alley by the time you get here,} he assured her.  
  
{Did you call Gabriel?}  
  
{Not yet. I will though.}  
  
{When you do speak to him, tell him I said 'hi.'}  
  
{Will do.}  
  
Her stomach growled loudly. {I just realized that you must be hungry, too,} she said. {Sorry I don't have anything to eat at my place. I guess you'll have to pick up something on the way to Gabriel's.}  
  
{Unnecessary. I'm eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as we speak,} Ian informed her. {The night we went to dinner at your godparents' house, I overheard you telling your godfather that you badly needed to go shopping, and when I saw for myself how bare your cupboards were, I took the liberty of having some groceries delivered to your home the next day while you were at work,} he explained. {Your superintendent was kind enough to put the perishable items away.}  
  
{That was really thoughtful of you, baby,} Sara told him. {Thanks a lot.}  
  
{You're welcome. Mmmm, this is really quite delicious,} he commented. {No wonder you like them so much!}  
  
{Don't tell me you never had a PB&J sandwich before!} Sara said incredulously.  
  
{Not since I was very, very young and still living at the orphanage,} Ian replied. {My father frowned on such 'pedestrian fare.'}  
  
{Asshole!} Sara opined succinctly. {I practically lived on PB&J sandwiches when I was in college and at the police academy. Money was tight, and they're cheap, nutritious, and, like you said, delicious!}  
  
{Plus, they're easy to prepare and can be eaten on the go,} Ian enthused. {Oops!} There was a slight pause. {Unless, of course, you use too much jelly,} he added ruefully. {In that case, things can get a bit messy.}  
  
{For me, the mess is part of the charm,} she laughed. {Somehow, it just doesn't seem right if you don't end up with sticky fingers after eating a PB&J! Uh-oh, here comes Danny. Gotta go! Bye!}  
  
{See you later, my love.}  
  
Sara unlocked the doors as Danny slogged through the snow and came around to the passenger side, plastic, "I Heart NY" takeout bag in hand. Again, he conscientiously stamped his feet and brushed snow off his legs before climbing into the SUV.  
  
"Here's your change," he said, handing her a couple of singles and some coins.  
  
"Thanks, Partner," Sara said, shoving it in her jacket pocket. She waited until he buckled up before pulling away. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved."  
  
"I could eat," Danny nodded.  
  
She caught a whiff of the mouth-watering scent emanating from the bag that he'd placed on the floor between his feet, and her stomach rumbled loudly again, the sound clearly audible in the cozy confines of the SUV, bringing a smile to her passenger's handsome face.  
  
"Wish me luck finding parking," Sara murmured as she turned down her street. She knew that she had to make a token effort to find a space or risk raising Danny's suspicions. "What I wouldn't do for a VIP placard right about now."  
  
"Tell me about it. I was damn lucky to find a spot on my block before the storm hit."  
  
"It's kinda neat how the parked cars are nothing more than rounded bumps, hunh?" Sara observed. "Even the SUVs!"  
  
Danny grimaced. "Neat if you don't have dig one of them out," he muttered, "which I'm so not looking forward to having to do."  
  
They passed the alley next to her building, where she customarily parked her motorcycle, and Sara glanced down it. She saw no sign of Nottingham, but she sensed that he was nearby, and the Witchblade confirmed it by swirling warmly as It was wont to do.  
  
"Hey, look!" Danny said, pointing further up the street. "There's actually a spot!"  
  
Sure enough, somebody had gone to the considerable trouble of digging their car out, leaving behind a nice-sized space. It took some doing, but Sara finally managed to maneuver the SUV into the spot.  
  
_'A pity it won't be ours for long,'_ she thought. _'And it'll probably be gone by the time Ian comes back.'_ Not that it mattered, Sara realized unhappily, belatedly remembering that he planned on returning to the estate later that evening.  
  
{Miraculously, I found a parking space right up the street from my building, Ian,} she sent, unbuckling her seatbelt.  
  
{If it's the spot I'm thinking of,} he responded. {I watched the previous occupant finish the laborious process of digging his vehicle out less than half an hour ago.}  
  
{Now that I think about it, ours is one of the few cars I've seen without any snow on it,} Sara commented, getting out and going around to the back. {Lucky for us, Robbie and Paula have a two-car garage, hunh? All we had to do was shovel the driveway.} With some difficulty because of the limited space between the SUV and the snow-covered car behind it, she managed to open the trunk and remove her duffle bag.  
  
{That was indeed fortunate. However, the lack of snow also makes the SUV stand out, and I am fairly certain that my father's men aren't the only ones with the vehicle's description and plates.}  
  
{Wait a sec,} Sara said, alarmed, {are you saying Irons might have reported the car stolen!?!}  
  
{Unfortunately, it's a distinct possibility,} Ian reluctantly admitted.  
  
{Then maybe you'd better leave it parked here and take public transportation to Gabriel's place,} she suggested, her mind whirling at the thought of what might have happened had she and Danny been pulled over by a squad car. How on earth would she have explained the situation to her partner, much less the officers who stopped them? And they weren't out of the woods yet; she still had to take Danny home after their talk.  
  
"Maybe I'd better take the subway home," Danny said, almost as though he'd read her mind. He'd climbed over into the driver's seat to get out in order to avoid the mountain of snow on the passenger side. Reaching over, he snagged the bag containing their food.  
  
"Nah," Sara said quickly, closing the trunk. "If I found this spot, I'll find another." She shouldered her bag.  
  
"You sure?" he glanced around the deserted street. "I didn't see any others on the way here, and I was looking." They began heading toward her apartment building, walking in the middle of the empty street.  
  
{Sara, I'm not comfortable having to depend on public transportation in the event that I must return here quickly,} Ian said.  
  
"I'm sure," she answered Danny. To Ian, she sent, {I think you can risk it. Both Danny and I have guns, and then, or course, there's the Witchblade. But, come to think of it, Gabriel mentioned that a neighbor of his owns a car. Maybe he could borrow it in a pinch and run you over here?}  
  
{I suppose that's feasible,} he responded, but she clearly sensed his dissatisfaction with this solution.  
  
{Relax, baby, I'll be fine,} Sara soothed. {Go and have fun at Gabriel's,} she urged him. {Now, I've really gotta go. I'm not so good at carrying on two conversations at once!}  
  
{Very well,} Ian sent. {But please alert me as soon as you're done talking.}  
  
{Will do. Bye!}  
  
She was chagrinned to discover that Danny had begun speaking to her during the tail end of her exchange with her Protector. But after listening to him for a few moments, she was relieved to discover that he was relating the story of his five-year-old daughter's reaction to the record snowfall, and thus no response had been required from her up to that point.  
  
Sara reciprocated by telling him about the snowball fight in the Siris' backyard, ending it by saying "and that's when Ian kissed me for the first time."  
  
"Well, then," Danny remarked, grinning, "you obviously had no choice but to jump his bones."  
  
"Obviously!" Sara smirked, taking out her keys and unlocking her front door. She stepped inside, dropping her duffle bag on the floor, and took a quick look around. Ian had apparently taken the time to put away the rest of the groceries, because there was no sign of them. Sara took off her outerwear, stuffing her hat, scarf, and gloves into her coat sleeve before tossing it onto the couch.  
  
Danny took the food into the kitchen and set it on the kitchen table before removing his navy-blue pea coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. He hung his coat on the coat tree near the front door.  
  
"Let's chow down!" Sara said, going into the kitchen and getting out a couple of plates and some serving spoons. "What would you like to drink?" she inquired, placing the items on the table.  
  
"What do you have?" he queried, removing the takeout cartons from the bag, along with a couple of pairs of chopsticks.  
  
"Um," Sara did a quick inventory of her amazingly well-stocked, see- through refrigerator, "beer, seltzer, O.J., Diet Coke, bottled water, and fruit punch."  
  
"I'll have a beer, thank you."  
  
Sara grabbed a bottle of beer and a can of seltzer for herself, and took a seat at the table.  
  
The two friends made desultory conversation during the meal, which was devoured quickly and efficiently.  
  
"Mmmm. As usual, that was excellent," Danny murmured, rubbing his belly contentedly.  
  
"It's the best Thai food in town, hands down," Sara said, getting up and placing their dirty plates in the sink. _'Okay,'_ she thought, _'the moment of truth has arrived.'_ Taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned around and retook her seat across from Danny.  
  
"So," he said, beating her to the punch, "what did you want to talk to me about?" He took a swig of beer, his dark, almond-shaped eyes studying her expression curiously.  
  
"Remember me telling you about that shootout at the Midtown Museum?" she asked him.  
  
"The one that ended with a natural gas explosion and with you somehow avoiding getting burned to a crisp, unlike the shooter?" he said blandly. "Sure."  
  
"Yeah, well, aside from walking away without a scratch when, by all accounts, I should have been killed, something really strange and fantastic happened to me that day."  
  
"Do tell."  
  
"I came into possession of this," she held up her right wrist and pulled down her sleeve to expose the intricate silver bracelet with the large, blood-red stone that adorned it, "and became the next Wielder of the Witchblade."  
  
More to come. I know, I know! After an intolerably long wait, I have the nerve to leave it there! Bad, bad me! Please, please, please bear with me! I've learned my lesson: never say you'll post again soon. Life (of the dreaded real variety) has a funny way of throwing a spanner in the works despite your best intentions! Thank you all for your continued support of my creative efforts. As always, I eagerly look forward to reading your feedback, and I'll try my damnedest to post the next installment in a more timely manner! (See? I didn't say "soon"!). dragongrrl 


	63. Chapter 64

A Family Affair

Disclaimer: The same as for the other chapters.

Author's Note: Once again, I must apologize for the long drought between chapters. Real life has been a HUGE drag lately. Also, this chapter contains adult situations that may be unsuitable reading for impressionable youngsters. You've been warned, so please don't report me to Enjoy!

Chapter 64.

Danny raised his eyebrows. "The what of the what-what?"

"The Wielder of the Witchblade," Sara repeated. Nervously, she fiddled with the bracelet. "It may look like an ordinary piece of jewelry, but It's actually an ancient, sentient weapon of mass destruction, and I'm Its Wielder."

"You're shitting me, right?" he said, grinning.

"No, I'm not. Watch this." She concentrated, and with a faint snicking sound, the Witchblade obediently morphed, first into a gauntlet and then into the sword form, the carnelian stone flaring bright.

"What the --!?!" Eyes wide with shock, her partner jumped to his feet, shoving his chair back so abruptly, it fell over with a loud clatter. "Please tell me you slipped a hallucinogen into my beer when I wasn't looking, Pez," he breathed, never taking his gaze off the gleaming blade.

She shook her head. "'Fraid not, Partner."

"Um, c-could you, uh, p-put that away?" he stuttered. "Big, sharp, pointy things make me kinda nervous."

The Witchblade returned to the bracelet form but Danny remained standing, his slim body tense. Sara sighed. "I know you've noticed the way I zone out from time to time, not to mention the crazy leaps of intuition I've gotten into the habit of making." She paused, and he gave a curt nod. "That's because the Witchblade sends me visions, or premonitions. That's how I knew about Angel Medina before Paco Gutierrez's body was even identified," Sara said quietly. "And that's also how I knew Joey's life was in danger. I received a vision that showed him being shot to death by Angel's brother, Joaquin. That's why I became so obsessed with bringing the Medina brothers down."

"You're saying that thing is alive?" Danny asked, still eyeing the Witchblade warily.

"Not exactly. Yes, It _is_ sentient, but It's pretty much powerless without someone to wield It. That's where I come in. Seems I'm the latest in a long line of Wielders that stretches back eons. The Witchblade is bonded to me on a cellular level, giving me superhuman strength, speed, reflexes, and recuperative abilities. The visions I already told you about."

His speculative gaze shifted to her face. "So, what, you're Superwoman now?"

Sara shook her head again. "I'm still me, Danny, but I'm also the Wielder, which means, like it or not, I'm now in possession of a mystical weapon of enormous power. It also means that from here on in I've gotta be on the lookout for some pretty scary people who know what the Blade can do and who will do anything, including kill me, to get their hands on It. To be perfectly honest with you, all of this is still kind of new to me, too. I've still got a helluva lot to learn about wielding the Witchblade. In the meantime, I really need to know that my friends and family are behind me," she said, green eyes searching his bemused dark-brown ones anxiously.

Her best friend and partner ran an unsteady hand through his glossy, black shoulder-length hair. "You gotta admit all of this sounds insane, Pez. I mean, if I hadn't seen that bracelet transform with my own eyes, I'd be convinced that you'd gone completely nuts. As it is, I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the whole bizarro situation."

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Sara murmured. "Sometimes it all seems like a bad dream, and when I wake up tomorrow, I'll be back to normal."

A faint smile appeared on Danny's handsome face. "Now, you and I both know you were never normal, Pez."

"Amen to that," she agreed, with an answering smile.

"How does Kenneth Irons factor into all of this?" he suddenly asked. "You mentioned that explosion at the Midtown Museum. If I recall correctly, Irons' private collection was on exhibit in the hall that was destroyed that day, which would mean the Witchblade once belonged to him, right?"

_There's that razor-sharp deductive reasoning again,_ Sara thought ruefully. Aloud she said, "Yeah, It was once in his possession, but It chose me over him. Trouble is, he wants It back. That's why he assigned Ian Nottingham to follow my every move. Irons was hoping I'd prove to be a failure at wielding the Witchblade, and that It would reject me. However, much to his dismay, I passed the Periculum -- a test all would-be Wielders go through -- with flying colors, proving that I'm a True Wielder. Worse, I'm not easily manipulated, which is what Irons was hoping for in the next Wielder. But that hasn't stopped him from trying to control me. He's obsessed with the Witchblade, and he won't rest until he regains control of It or dies trying."

"And Nottingham works for this guy?" Danny shook his head doubtfully. "Sounds to me like you're sleeping with the enemy. I mean, how can you be sure you can trust him?"

"Because he's my Protector," Sara replied. "You see, every Wielder has a Protector, a warrior who is born with a link to both the Witchblade and Its Wielder and who will fight to the death to defend the Wielder from her enemies," she explained. "Ian Nottingham is mine."

"Oh, yeah? So, how'd he end up working for your archenemy?"

"That's a long story, and I don't know all of the details," Sara admitted. "But I _can_ tell you that Irons adopted him from an orphanage when Ian was a little boy. In fact, the twisted bastard is the only father he's ever known. But instead of raising him as his adopted son, Irons raised him to be his personal bodyguard and henchman. Danny, I can't stress enough how evil and ruthless Irons is. In addition to a shitload of money, he's made a lot of enemies over the years, and before the Witchblade chose me, Ian was kept very busy protecting him from them."

"I'll bet," Danny murmured. "But Irons is still alive and kicking, so Nottingham is obviously very, very good at what he does."

"Yeah. Aside from his Special Forces training, he's an expert in several martial arts disciplines. Plus, starting when he was still just a child, Irons allowed him to be used as a guinea pig for top-secret genetic reengineering experiments, nearly killing him in the process. But somehow Ian survived, and the genetic enhancements took, giving him many of the same abilities that I now possess."

Danny snorted. "No wonder you were so nervous about the guy shadowing your every move. I'm curious: What made you change your mind about him?"

"I discovered who he truly is," Sara said simply. "But even before that, he risked Irons' wrath by going against his orders to help me out, saving my butt in the process. That's why I can't hold his past crimes against him."

Her partner gave her a sharp look. "His past crimes?"

"Yeah." Sara paused, gathering her nerve. "Look, Danny, what I'm about to tell you is gonna sound very, very bad, but I want you to promise that you'll hear me out before condemning Ian." _And me for hooking up with him,_ she added to herself.

"Okay," her partner said slowly. "I'm listening."

"Like I said, Irons is rotten to the core and has made plenty of enemies over the years, many of whom decided to take matters into their own hands and attempt to have him killed. In retaliation, Irons sent his very best assassin after these people to make sure they never troubled him again. That assassin was Nottingham," Sara told him. "But those days are over, I promise you that," she added quickly as, predictably, Danny's expression became perturbed. "He's in the process of assuming his rightful role as my Protector."

"So, basically, what you're telling me is Nottingham's a genetically enhanced super-soldier with a string of murders to his credit," he scowled, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw.

She winced. "He's not a cold-blooded murderer, Danny."

"No, he's a premeditated killer, which is even worse," he snapped. "Tell me something, Pez: How many people has he assassinated for Irons?"

Sara's spirits plummeted, even though she'd been expecting this. "Seventeen," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

"Does that include the men that were found burned beyond recognition in that warehouse the other night?" Danny queried harshly. "Come to think of it, I should probably ask how many of them you took out with the Witchblade after rushing to Nottingham's rescue."

Sara flinched as if from a blow. "Ian killed those Russian mercenaries in self-defense, just like I did," she defended. "And if I hadn't come to his rescue I'm convinced he would have been killed. As it was, he came close to dying that day -- and not from nearly being blown to smithereens by a shoulder-launched missile. You see, the other day, when I told you Ian had the flu, I was lying. The truth of the matter is Irons poisoned him. Seems he wasn't content with setting Ian up to be ambushed by a bunch of angry Russians -- Russians who were royally pissed off at Irons because he deliberately sold them a cache of shoddy weapons, mind you. Apparently, Kenny felt it was necessary to remind Ian just who his loyalties belonged to. So, he arranged to have him injected with a toxin that very nearly killed him.

Sara paused, giving Danny time to digest this information. "Fortunately, I was able to administer the antidote in the nick of time," she continued quietly. "After that, Ian's recuperative abilities kicked in, and he quickly recovered from both the illness and the injuries he received during his battle with the mercenaries."

"And in the middle of all of this, you decided to hook up with Nottingham," Danny observed acerbically, dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Forgive me for being skeptical, but your change of heart happened awfully fast, Pez. I mean, I know you've got a reckless streak a mile wide, but the guy is a professional killer and you're a homicide detective, for Christ's sake!"

"Former professional killer," Sara corrected lamely. "And, yeah, I can see how you might think I've been brainwashed or something, but I'm asking you to trust me on this. Ian's a good guy." She shrugged fatalistically. "Sure, barely a week ago, if you'd said that me and him were gonna end up together, I'd have told you that you seriously needed to have your head examined, but that was then and this is now. Not only am I convinced that he's my Protector, but I'm pretty sure he's my soul mate, too."

Danny's eyes widened incredulously. "Your soul mate?" he repeated. "I didn't think those words were part of your vocabulary, Pez."

She flushed self-consciously. "They weren't. Until recently." _Do I spring the fact that I might be pregnant on him?_ she mused. _No. I should wait 'til I know for sure that I am._

Her partner began pacing restlessly around the kitchen table. "This is a helluva lot to take in all at once," he muttered, shaking his head. "Mystical weapons, Wielders, Protectors. And as if that wasn't bizarre enough, you had to go and hit me with this soul mate business!"

"Look, Danny," Sara entreated, "I know Ian is probably the last guy on earth you would have picked for me to end up with, but, like it or not, he _is_ my choice. I also know it's a lot to ask of you to accept him knowing what you now do about what he used to do for a living, but I'm willing to put his past behind me, and I was really hoping you could do the same."

He stopped pacing and searched her eyes intently. "Maybe I'd be more willing to do so if I could be certain that this really is _your_ choice, Sara," he finally said.

She frowned in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how can you be sure that It," he gestured toward the Witchblade, "isn't controlling you and your emotions?" Danny clarified. "And you said that Nottingham was born with a link to It, right?"

She nodded, guessing where he was going with this line of questioning. "Yeah, so?"

"So, how do you know he isn't exerting some form of mind control over you through It?"

"I had thought of that," Sara reluctantly admitted. She paused, gathering her thoughts. "To be honest with you, I definitely felt as though the Witchblade was prodding me in Ian's direction, especially after he was poisoned by Irons. I started feeling weirdly protective of him, and couldn't understand why. I mentioned this to Gabriel, who, by the way, already knew all about the Witchblade -- more on that later. Anyway, Gabe explained about the bond between Wielders and their Protectors, seriously freaking me out in the process when he told me that Witchblade lore suggested that our connection could be become much, much deeper if we became lovers." She shrugged again, smiling sheepishly. "You and Gabe were right: I was in deep denial about my attraction to Nottingham. Turns out, resistance was futile. I've fallen for him, Danny. Hard. I can't really explain it other than to say it feels right that we're together."

"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out implacably.

She touched the Witchblade's quiescent stone. "I'd like to think that under different circumstances -- like, if the Witchblade hadn't chosen me and Ian was just some guy I happened to meet in a bar -- we'd have still hooked up, but I can't say for sure that we would have. The fact of the matter is, I'm the Wielder and he's my Protector. Neither of us really had much of a choice about that, especially Ian.

"But I'm convinced that falling in love with him was my choice and mine alone. And he loves me, which is nothing short of a miracle considering how badly I treated him at first. I was a real cast-iron bitch toward him, and yet he continually risked Irons' wrath by helping me out. Did I mention that I owe my life to him? More than once. But it took almost losing him to make me realize that I need him if I'm going to succeed in learning how to wield this thing against the bad guys. Actually, accepting Ian as my Protector was surprisingly easy. Admitting that I love him was much, much harder. And although it might seem like it happened awfully quick, I'm ashamed that it took me as long as it did to admit how I felt about him. To him and to myself."

Sara glanced up at Danny's face and was relieved to see that his expression had softened fractionally. "What made you decide to tell me about this after all this time?" he asked curiously.

"Well, after I discovered how I really felt about Ian, I decided I had to come clean about everything to my friends and family if we were going to make our relationship work. Plus, Ian is convinced that Irons will contrive to let the people closest to me find out about his past misdeeds in an effort to alienate them from me. So, telling you about us was sort of a preemptive strike, if you will," she admitted. "However, telling you about the Witchblade was a no-brainer. I couldn't stand lying to you anymore, and I felt sure you could handle the truth," Sara told him.

He stopped pacing and righted his chair, turning it around before retaking his seat. "What does this mean in terms of your job, Pez? Will you stay on the force or are you gonna quit and become a full-time superhero?" he asked her.

Sara shifted in her chair uncomfortably. "I, uh, hadn't really thought about it," she said truthfully. "I mean, I can't imagine quitting my job. You know I love being a cop, Danny. It's all I wanted to be ever since I was a little kid. But this . . . situation complicates things."

"I'll say. For starters, you'd have to figure out a way to explain how the perps ended up with stab wounds instead of bullet wounds."

They sat there in silence for a time, lost in their own thoughts.

"I'll understand if you don't want to partner with me anymore, Danny," Sara suddenly said.

It seemed to take Danny a bit longer to snap out of his private reverie. "What?"

"I said I'll understand if --"

"I heard you the first time," he interrupted her. "I'm just surprised you'd even suggest that as an option."

"Well, after everything I just told you, it would be entirely understandable if you decided you wanted to partner with somebody else." Sara told him, unable to hide her relief that this apparently wasn't the case.

"We're still partners, Pez," he confirmed, and then gave her a wry grin. "Besides, anything beats having to break in another rookie."

Feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Sara smiled back at him. "You got that right!" she seconded.

But then he frowned. "Speaking of rookies, just who else were you planning to tell about all this?"

"Well, Vicky, of course. But I'm undecided about Jake. Think he can handle it?"

Danny looked thoughtful. "Maybe." He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Me either. I'm gonna have to give it some serious thought. I already told my godparents and my brother and his family."

"Oh, yeah? How'd they take it?"

Sara proceeded to tell him about Joe and Marie Siri's astonishing revelation about being her Watchers, as well as about Robbie's similarly negative reaction to her disclosure of Ian's nefarious past. She also told him her theory about Gabriel Bowman's role in the scheme of things, as well as her suspicions about Captain Bruno Dante possibly being on Irons' payroll. Before the two of them knew it, hours had passed.

"I should be getting back home," Danny said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "You know, I really don't mind taking the subway so that you don't lose that parking spot."

"All right, if you insist," Sara acquiesced, secretly relieved that she didn't have to worry about the possibility of them being caught in a vehicle that had been reported stolen. "I'll walk you to the subway." They donned their outerwear in companionable silence, and left the loft.

When they reached the deserted street, Danny made a point of looking into the alley next to her building. "By any chance, is Nottingham lurking nearby?" he asked her.

"No," she smiled, hooking her arm through his. "We didn't think it was a good idea for him to show his face around here until after you'd left. He's hanging out at Talismaniac with Gabriel." Once again, they walked in the middle of the street as they headed toward the subway a few blocks away.

"Earlier, you said that Nottingham is in the process of assuming his rightful role as your Protector," Danny said. "What did you mean by that?"

"He still has to give his notice to Irons," Sara said flatly, then sighed heavily. _Yeah, right, if only it were as simple as that._ "There's a seriously twisted kind of 'master/slave' dynamic to their relationship that I can't even begin to fathom." She made a frustrated gesture. "Suffice it to say Irons has kept Ian on a pretty short leash for most of his life."

"Yeah, and something tells me Mr. Moneybags isn't gonna let him go without a fight," her partner commented astutely.

"You don't know the half of it," she said, and went on to tell him all about her and Ian's visit to Irons' estate that morning, culminating the story with their narrow escape.

"Do you think it's wise of him to go back there alone?" Danny queried as they reached the entrance to the subway. "Seems to me like that's just asking for trouble."

"If it were up to me, he'd never go back there, but I realize that in order to begin the process of gaining his independence from him, he needs to confront his father on his own. Breaking the ties that bind him to that evil bastard is not gonna be easy. And pretty much all I can do to help is lend Ian moral support." She shivered, hugging herself against a sudden chill. "I pray that it's enough."

"For your sake, Pez, I hope it is," Danny murmured. "And although I may not have any superpowers or a psychic connection to you and the Witchblade, you know I've always got your back, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know." Sara smiled tremulously at him, for once uncaring that her eyes had filled with tears. "Still, it's good to hear you say it. These past few months have been tough as hell on me because I couldn't share what I was going through with you. I was terrified that I'd lose not only my partner, but my best friend," she whispered.

Danny removed a glove from one hand and gently wiped the tears from her cold cheeks. "Well, I can't promise that me and Nottingham will ever become buddies," he said gruffly, "but since it means so much to you, I'm willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt."

"That's all I'm asking, Woo."

He gave her a hug. "See you later, Partner."

"Yeah, later." She watched until he'd disappeared from sight before heading back.

(_Ian?_)

(_Yes, my love?_)

(_Danny just left._)

(_I'm on my way._)

(_How's Gabe? Did you guys have fun?_)

(_He's fine, and, yes, we did. I helped him catalog a box of new acquisitions._)

Sara smiled at the enthusiasm in his "voice." (_That's great._)

(_How did your talk with Detective Woo go?_)

(_Better than expected. I'll tell you all about it when you get here. And hurry up, 'cause I really miss you._)

(_I missed you, too, my love. See you shortly._)

A familiar buzz of anticipation at seeing him again coursing through her, Sara hurried home.

Silently, Ian cursed himself for not realizing sooner that his father had probably reported the SUV stolen. It would have been terribly embarrassing had Sara and her partner been stopped by a couple of their uniformed peers on the way back to the loft.

He waited in the alley where Sara customarily parked her motorcycle until she and her partner had entered her apartment building before pulling out his cell phone and dialing Gabriel Bowman's number from memory.

The young entrepreneur answered after the second ring. "Talismaniac. You name it, we got it as long as its authentically antique, just plain weird, or both."

"Hello, Mr. Bowman."

"Hey, what's up, Ian?"

"I have some free time on my hands," he replied, encouraged by the fact that the younger man actually sounded happy to hear from him, "and I was wondering if you would like some company for a couple of hours this afternoon. That is, if you are not too busy," he added quickly.

"Not at all. Come on over. I was just about to start cataloging a new shipment of stuff and I could use your help."

"Excellent, I will be there shortly." Ian ended the call, only then recalling that his father had attempted to locate him by triangulating his cell phone's signal. However, since the call had lasted less than a minute, he doubted there had been enough time for even the savviest communications technician to pinpoint his location. Still, this reminder of the fact that he was a wanted man was sobering, and it increased his uneasiness about being forced to rely on mass transit in the event he had to return to Sara's side in a hurry. He decided that once he arrived at Talismaniac, he would immediately ascertain if, as Sara had suggested, Gabriel had access to an vehicle in an emergency. With this resolve in mind, he set off for the subway.

Encouragingly, the ride was brief, and he was further pleased to discover that the subway was only a short distance from his destination. Out of habit, he did a swift reconnaissance of the immediate vicinity, but could detect no sign that Gabriel Bowman's place was being watched. Five minutes later, he hit the buzzer marked "Talismaniac" on the intercom.

"Yo."

"It is me."

"Buzzing you in."

On the elevator ride up, Ian could not help remembering the second time he'd visited Talismaniac. Despite the less-than-pleasant circumstances, he'd enjoyed himself, especially the discussion he'd had with Gabriel's client, Veronica Matthews. He reached into his coat pocket and found the card that the young museum curator had given him. Turning it over, he discovered that she'd scribbled a phone number on the back, a number that differed from the one on the front of the card. He was still puzzling over this when he reached the door to Gabriel's apartment, which, typically, had been left ajar.

Rock music emanated from speakers mounted on the walls, but, thankfully, at a much lower volume than Talismaniac's proprietor usually favored, and the air was hazy and aromatic with smoke from the incense sticks smoldering in a corner. Ian heard distinctly feminine laughter, and saw that Gabriel and a young, blond woman were sitting on the couch in the dining room-turned-parlor.

"Hey, Ian," Gabriel said, jumping up. "You look much, much better than the last time I saw you," he observed, grasping Ian's hand in greeting.

"I feel much, much better," he replied, glancing curiously at the young businessman's other visitor.

"I'd like you to meet my friend, Chloe. Chloe, this is a friend of mine, Ian Nottingham."

Chloe stood and extended her right hand. "Nice to meet you, Ian. Do you party?"

"Party?"

Gabriel grinned. "Um, Chloe brought over some weed with her, and we were just about to smoke some."

"No, thank you," Ian politely declined.

"Here, let me take your coat," Gabriel offered. "What's that?" he queried, noticing the card Ian still held in his hand.

"The business card Veronica Matthews gave me. I have just discovered that she wrote a telephone number on the back, perhaps indicating that the number printed on the front is no longer in service," Ian said, showing it to him. He discreetly removed his weapons harness along with his beat-up overcoat.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "Um, I'm pretty sure that's her home phone number," he informed him.

Ian frowned in puzzlement. "Why would she provide her private number when her business number would have sufficed?"

The younger man shook his head disbelievingly. "Man, you're really clueless, aren't you?" he said, not unkindly. He looked at Chloe, who had retaken a seat on the couch. "Nottingham doesn't get out much."

"I understand," she said, although Ian did not see how she possibly could. He himself was not quite sure what Gabriel had meant by that last remark, although he had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with his lamentable lack of experience in dealing with the opposite sex.

Chloe smiled at Ian, grey-blue eyes twinkling. "She liked you, Ian. That's why she gave you her home phone number," she explained. "She's hoping you'll call her."

Ian felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment at his own naiveté. "Oh."

The young woman noted this reaction with amusement. "And I totally understand why," she murmured, chuckling. "You're a real hottie!"

Ian gave Gabriel an inquiring look. "A 'hottie'?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "It means that, for some reason, otherwise intelligent women dig you," he said shortly, practically snatching Ian's coat and weapons harness from him and hanging them in the hall closet. "Come, have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Some peppermint tea would be most appreciated," Ian said, taking a seat on the chaise lounge across from the couch.

"Coming right up." He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a steaming mug, which he set on the coffee table in front of Ian before sitting down next to Chloe again.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a hit or two, Ian? My bong gives massive but really smooth hits." Chloe picked up a brightly colored plastic device from the coffee table along with a lighter.

"I am sure," he declined again. He watched with interest as she put her mouth over the opening at the top of the cylindrical column and her thumb over a small hole at the base of the column. She flicked the lighter and applied the flame to the small wooden bowl affixed to the end of a slender metal pipe that stuck out at an angle from the bong's bulbous, liquid-filled base. The bowl was filled to the brim with marijuana, which glowed orange as it burned. There was a bubbling sound as Chloe sucked in air, and the vessel filled with white smoke, which she inhaled before passing the bong and the lighter to Gabriel, who repeated the process.

After holding their breath for quite some time, they both expelled billowing clouds of pungent smoke. Gabriel immediately began coughing, face reddening.

Chloe laughed at him. "You're such an amateur, Gabe!"

The paroxysm passed swiftly, and the young man grinned at her. "Never was much of a pot-smoker," he acknowledged, eyes watering. "But I must admit I do enjoy partaking on occasion."

"How about you, Ian? Have you ever smoked weed?" Chloe asked him.

Ian shook his head. "No, I have not." He shrugged self-consciously. "I had a very sheltered and strict upbringing."

"Pity." Chloe took another lungful, held it, and exhaled. "This stuff is guaranteed all-natural Hydroponic Chronic. It's way expensive, but so worth it," she explained, passing the bong to Gabriel again.

"Hmmm. Maybe we should warn him about the dangers of a contact high," Gabriel said a minute later between wracking coughs.

Chloe grinned. "Yeah, maybe we should." She took another hit.

Ian gave his host a questioning look. "Should I be concerned?" he asked seriously.

The young entrepreneur waved off the bong when Chloe offered it to him again. "I'm done," he demurred. To Ian, he said, "Um, empirical evidence suggests that people who are exposed to second-hand pot smoke may experience a mild reaction. But don't worry; you might get a slight buzz, but you're not gonna get stoned."

"We, on the other hand, are definitely getting stoned," Chloe asserted solemnly, taking another hit.

"I have read that marijuana usage impairs one's judgment," Ian remarked. "Are you certain you want to attempt to catalog these new acquisitions you mentioned while under the influence?"

"That's where you'll definitely come in handy, Ian," Gabriel told him earnestly. "I trust that you'll keep me from doing anything crazy, like, like pricing something insanely cheaply, or vice versa."

"I must caution you that I am far from an expert when it comes to valuing antiquities; however, I will endeavor to ensure that your confidence in me is not misplaced," he murmured.

"Um, okay. Endeavor away!" Gabriel grinned, and then burst out laughing for no apparent reason.

Chloe started giggling. "Lightweight! You're already high!" she accused.

"I know you are, but what about me?" Gabriel chortled, poking her in the side.

"Cut it out, Gabe!" she shrieked, shrinking away from him. "You know I'm extremely ticklish."

"No, you're not!"

"You're right. I'm not. I don't know why I said that!" Chloe said, and then dissolved into laughter.

Bemused, Ian watched them laugh giddily until tears ran down their cheeks. Idly, he wondered if Sara had ever experimented with marijuana. Probably, he decided, since apparently it was something practically every American teenager tried at least once. Most of his fellow Black Dragons had admitted that they'd smoked it during their formative years, even Hector Mobius. Ian found himself wondering if his father had ever smoked marijuana. He blinked. _Where the hell did that bizarre thought come from? _Kenneth Irons was simply not someone he could envision getting intoxicated. For one thing, he hated losing control, and judging by the extreme silliness that both Gabriel and Chloe had succumbed to, Ian was fairly certain his father had never allowed himself to indulge in something as potentially undignified as pot smoking. Suddenly, unbidden, the image of Irons inhaling an enormous lungful of smoke from a bong popped into his mind's eye, and Nottingham was unable to refrain from chuckling.

"Uh-oh, we have contact!" Gabriel crowed, noticing the other man's sudden mirth.

"Excellent!" Chloe enthused. "Just relax and go with it, Ian."

"I just thought of something really funny," Ian admitted. "My father taking a hit from a bong!"

"That I would pay good money to see!" Gabriel declared before bursting into laughter again.

"Omigosh, I can't even imagine my father taking a hit from my bong, can you?" Chloe asked Gabriel. "He's an Appellate Court Judge, and if he even suspected that I occasionally smoke weed, he'd have a coronary!" she told Ian.

"Here, your Honor, take a hit!" Gabriel gasped, miming passing a bong to someone. "It's guaranteed all-natural Hydroponic Chronic!"

Chloe doubled over with laughter. "Stop, stop! I'm gonna pee myself!" she cried. But then she sobered, glancing at her watch. "That reminds me, I'm meeting my parents for a late lunch, which means I've gotta vamoose if I want to have enough time to transform myself into the dutiful, straight-and-narrow daughter they know and love."

"You'd better hope your eyes are back to normal by then," Gabriel said.

"Oh, God, are they as bloodshot as yours?" she grimaced, obviously dismayed.

"If mine are bright, stoner red, then, yeah, they are."

Ian looked from one to the other. "Both of you have rather conspicuously bloodshot eyes," he confirmed helpfully.

Chloe groaned, but then brightened. "Luckily, Gabe's medicine cabinet is equipped with Visine. That oughtta do the trick. Be right back." She hurried down the hall to the bathroom.

"The red eyes are dead giveaway," Gabriel explained with a loopy grin. "So, how's your contact buzz feel?"

"I feel curiously light-spirited," Ian admitted. "And rather easily amused. Does this mean I am intoxicated?"

"Probably. Lucky for you I have plenty of munchies."

"Ah, yes, the compulsion to eat that often ensues after smoking marijuana," Ian deduced. "I doubt that I will experience this since I consumed two PB&J sandwiches immediately prior to coming over here and am therefore still quite full."

"Just you wait," Gabriel said knowingly. "If you did get a contact high, you'll want to munch out. Happens every time with me."

"PB&J," Ian said, apropos of absolutely nothing. "That stands for peanut butter and jelly."

"Um, yes, yes it does," Gabriel agreed cheerfully.

"It is a truly harmonious combination of flavors. Sara prefers grape jelly in her PB&Js, so that is what was available, but I imagine strawberry jam would taste equally delicious with the peanut butter," Ian continued, lying back on the chaise and absently rubbing his belly. "More importantly, the acronym would remain unchanged, only it would stand for peanut butter and jam." He frowned. "That does not have quite the same ring to it as peanut butter and jelly, does it? No matter. It would still be a PB&J whether one used grape jelly or strawberry jam."

_Oh, great, Nottingham's high as a kite from nothing but a little contact, _Gabriel thought, amusement warring with mild concern as he listened to the lethal assassin extol the virtues of PB&J sandwiches. _Must be that genetically tweaked physiology of his. I hope to God it wears off before he leaves, or Sara will never let him come over here again_, _which would really be a shame 'cause I could make a ton of sales to the ladies with him around. He's like catnip to them. I mean, Ronnie Matthews gave him her number for Pete's sake!_

Chloe came back into the room. "Well," she said, quickly gathering up her things, "I'm gonna get going. You guys have fun cataloging stuff. It was really nice meeting you, Ian."

"Same here," Ian said, rising to his feet. He noticed that her eyes were no longer as red as they had been.

"I'm leaving my bong here, okay, Gabe? Do you want me to leave you a little weed, too?" she asked him.

"Nah. It's no fun smoking alone." He got up from the couch and went to the closet in the foyer, taking out a light-blue down parka trimmed with faux fur. "If you want, you can come by again tonight," he told her, helping her into her coat. "We can ride out this next storm together."

"I just might do that," she said. Leaning close to him, she planted a lingering kiss on his lips, which Gabriel returned enthusiastically. "Mmmm. See you later."

"Later." Gabriel closed and locked the door behind her, and then turned to face Ian. "Ready to do some cataloging?"

"Sure." He hesitated before asking curiously, "Is Chloe your girlfriend?"

"Sort of." The younger man shrugged. "It's more like we're really good friends who occasionally sleep together."

"Sara and I have slept together," Ian announced. "First we made love, and then we slept together," he clarified.

Gabriel gave him a startled look. "Um, thanks for sharing," he said, then grinned. "Actually, that's great news. I'm really glad for you guys." He went behind the nearest counter and hefted a large wooden crate onto the countertop.

"Our bond is strong, and will only grow stronger with time," Ian murmured, "but I am afraid time is something we have precious little of. I intend to return to the estate tonight."

"Why tonight?"

"The sooner I begin the process of winning my freedom from my father the better," he explained, and proceeded to tell Gabriel about Joe and Marie Siri being Watchers, as well as their plan to defeat Irons. Ian also elaborated on the events that had taken place earlier in the day, only leaving out the part about the visit to the drugstore in Scarsdale. He decided that there was no sense in mentioning that Sara might be pregnant until they knew for sure she actually was.

"Wow, that's deep," Gabriel said when Ian finished speaking. "I guess confronting him again is better than having to constantly look over your shoulder, but I gotta tell you that I'm afraid of what he might try to do to punish you for running off with Sara, especially since he's probably back to full strength by now thanks to the infusion of Sara's blood."

"I have promised Sara that I will no longer allow him to beat me," Ian said.

Gabriel froze in the process of unwrapping a small statuette, bloodshot eyes widening. "Irons used to beat you?"

"Whenever I seriously displeased him, yes," Ian confirmed, "which means fairly regularly as of late." He grimaced. "I developed quite a predilection for disobedience where Sara was concerned, even though I knew it would infuriate my father."

"What a fucking asshole Irons is!" Gabriel exclaimed, outraged on the other man's behalf. "But I'll bet he was really careful not to let his cruelty show, otherwise it would've seriously tarnished his carefully cultivated image as an urbane, conscientious philanthropist."

"Yes. Most of the scarring is confined to my back. However, he became a bit careless once my recuperative abilities kicked in upon puberty." He indicated a faint scar that almost bisected his left eyebrow. "An errant blow from the lash did this. It laid my skin open to the bone and nearly cost me my eye. After that, he was careful to avoid hitting me in the face with the whip."

Gabriel looked like he was about to become ill. "God, Ian. I had no idea."

"How could you? After all, until last Wednesday, we were barely acquainted. By the way, I apologize for threatening you with bodily harm. And although I claimed not to feel any remorse for my past actions that day, I do feel regret," he told the younger man, "especially since I realize you were only trying to help Sara out by telling her what you had learned about the Witchblade."

"Bygones," Gabriel said dismissively. "You were only following orders."

"That is part of the problem," Ian said quietly. "Obeying my father's wishes is so deeply ingrained in me, I am afraid that I will find it extremely difficult to stand up to him."

Coming around from behind the counter, Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder and waited until Ian met his eyes before speaking. "You did it before, and you'll do it again, Ian," he said staunchly, brown eyes intent. "You're stronger than you realize."

Ian smiled faintly. "Your faith in me, although badly misguided, is heartwarming."

The younger man shrugged again. "Well, my friend, you'll just have to endeavor to ensure that my confidence is you is not misplaced," he quipped.

"I will try my best to do so," Ian promised. "That reminds me, Sara asked me to ask you if you have a theory as to why the Witchblade apparently wants my father to remain in the picture."

"Good question," Gabriel nodded, going back behind the counter. "I'll have to give it some thought. Maybe do a little research. What's she up to this afternoon anyway? You never said."

"She is telling her partner about the Witchblade," Ian informed him, "and me."

The younger man looked up sharply. "Wow. That's a big step for her. I don't suppose Danny's gonna be thrilled to find out about your background," he said perceptively. "No wonder you wanted to make yourself scarce."

"Indeed."

"Hey, would you look at this beauty! An Olmec fertility figurine, if I'm not mistaken." He held up the statuette he'd just unwrapped.

"Yes, note the cinnabar tracing etched into the face. This mercury ore was precious to the Olmecs. The piece is in excellent condition," Ian remarked, taking it from him and examining it more closely.

"Yeah. Unfortunately, as you might imagine in a country that poor, there's a chronic problem with looting of the Olmec and Mayan sites in Mexico. Luckily, I have a reputable seller who I've dealt with for ages. He's sent me some really gorgeous stuff over the years, and it looks like this shipment is no exception. I'm in the market for a good-sized jaguar god statue, and a couple of weeks ago he contacted me to say he'd found one along with a bunch of other goodies. Imagine my surprise when this shipment arrived late yesterday afternoon in spite of the blizzard!"

"You are only now unpacking it?"

"Um, yeah. Chloe came over, and I, uh, kind of got sidetracked."

"I see," Ian smiled. "Is it safe to assume that marijuana usage factored into your decision to delay cataloging the contents?"

"Among other things," Gabriel acknowledged wryly. "Me likey the ganja, Mon!"

"It seems to me that Chloe is a bad influence on you, Gabriel," Ian teased him.

Gabriel grinned. "Women: can't live without them, can't have fantastic, pot-fueled sex without them."

"Sex with Sara is fantastic," Ian commented, "even without the benefit of Hydroponic Chronic."

"Uh, I'll have to take your word on that, dude," Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head at the other man's candor. "Sara and I never did the wild thing -- although not for lack of interest on my part."

Ian nodded with reassuring equanimity. "I suspected as much. In fact, to be perfectly honest, the suspicion that you desired Sara made that, ah, errand I undertook for my father a lot easier to accomplish. I was very envious of your relationship with her," he admitted. "Particularly the ease with which you could make her laugh."

"Hmmm. So, that's what an insanely jealous professional assassin looks like, hunh? I'd always wondered," Gabriel cracked.

"Former professional assassin, if you please."

"Right. Are you getting hungry?" his host asked. "'Cause I sure as hell am."

"The dreaded munchies, eh?"

"Yup."

Ian followed him into his kitchen.

Gabriel opened his freezer. "Let's see: I got some Chubby Hubby -- it's got peanut butter in it, you know -- Cherry Garcia, and good, old-fashioned Van-Choc-Straw. I also have Chloe's fav, Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough." He closed the freezer door and peered up at the top of the refrigerator, which was cluttered with snacks. "If none of the above floats your boat, I've got blue corn chips, barbecue potato chips, Cheese Doodles, Stoned-Wheat Thins, and regular chips, plus humus, salsa, and French Onion and Ranch-flavored dips. So, what are you in the mood for: salty or sweet?"

"Both?" Ian hazarded.

"Atta boy!" Gabriel grinned. "Here, take these," he grabbed several bags from the top of the refrigerator, "and I'll grab the dips."

They sat at his kitchen table and devoured vast amounts of chips and dip and then huge bowls of ice cream (Chubby Hubby for Ian, and Cherry Garcia for Gabriel), while discussing the potent symbolism of the jaguar throughout Mesoamerican cultures. Thus, it was quite some time before they got down to the business of unpacking and cataloging the crate of new acquisitions. At one point, Ian realized that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. So, too, was Talismaniac's youthful proprietor, he observed happily. _This is what friends do,_ he mused, gratified to see that the last vestiges of guarded watchfulness had vanished from his new friend's mien. _Sara would be pleased to see us getting along so well._ With a guilty start, he realized that he'd completely forgotten to ask Gabriel about the availability of a vehicle in case of an emergency. '_Oh, well_'he shrugged fatalistically._ It's a little late to worry about that now._ Moments later, he started again when Sara contacted him telepathically to let him know that Detective Woo had gone home.

Gabriel noted his momentary distraction. "Was that Sara?" he asked, as if communicating telepathically was the most natural thing in the world.

"Yes. She and her partner have concluded their discussion."

"So, you're heading out."

"Yes. I have enjoyed myself immensely today, Gabriel," Ian told him truthfully. "Contact high notwithstanding."

The younger man grinned conspiratorially. "We'll just keep that between me and you, okay?"

"Why? Do you think Sara would disapprove?" Ian asked curiously, following him to the hall closet.

"Well, she _is_ a cop."

"True. Fine. It will be our secret." He put on his weapons harness and then his overcoat. "Thank you for having me."

"Any time," Gabriel said. "I mean that." A crafty look suddenly came over his boyish features. "As a matter of fact, what are you doing a week from tomorrow?"

"Other than fighting to gain my freedom from my ruthless, domineering father and defending the Wielder from her enemies," Ian said archly, "I have no plans."

"Well, I set up an appointment with a client who's interested in that gorgeous jaguar god statue, among other things, and it would be really great if you could just happen to drop by at around, say, 2:00-2:30?" Gabriel said hopefully. "Her name is Marilyn."

More to come. Thanks, as always, to those of you who have been kind enough to leave feedback. It truly stokes my creative fires and inspires me to ever-greater feats of imagination. Peace. dragongrrl.

21


	64. Chapter 65

Author's Note: Once again, I must apologize for the unforgivably long amount of time between posting chapters. I've been struggling with both real life and a touch of writer's block. I've also been watching the first season of "Witchblade" for the first time. I now realize just how much my story deviates from the show. Oh well. If you didn't know it before now, this story is definitely set in an alternate universe. Also, I apologize in advance for any typos. In my rush to post this long overdue chapter, I only gave it a cursory proofread/edit. Anyway, for your enjoyment (hopefully), here FINALLY is Chapter 65.

Disclaimer: Same old, same old

Chapter 65.

_I am not afraid to be your lady  
I am not afraid to be your whore  
I am not afraid to be your future  
I am not afraid to be your soil  
In which you plant your seed  
Flowers, they sprout from me  
My fragrance in the breeze  
You must nurture me please _

From "I'm Not Afraid" by Jill Scott and Omari Shabazz

As he rode the subway back to Sara's neighborhood, Ian began feeling very ill. His brain started to feel like it was trying to hammer its way out of his skull, his stomach started churning, and he felt enervated and vaguely depressed. The bright fluorescent lights of the too warm subway car and the piercing metallic screech of the brakes exacerbated the pain in his head. With shaking hands, he fumbled for his sunglasses and the earplugs he'd used earlier. This helped a little bit, but he didn't understand what was happening to him, and his rapidly deteriorating condition concerned him greatly. Little did he know he was crashing from both his contact high and his sugar high with a vengeance. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Sara and escape into blissful sleep for a few hours.

By the time the train pulled into his station, Ian's headache had escalated into a full-blown migraine and the enormous amount of snack food he'd unwisely consumed was threatening to come back up. The bitingly cold air that greeted him as he exited the station was like a godsend, soothing his throbbing head and settling his queasy stomach. Out of habit, he performed a cursory reconnaissance of the vicinity before entering Sara's building and trudging up the stairs on leaden legs.

The door to her loft opened just before he reached the landing.

"Hey, baby," Sara greeted him. Barefoot and clad in an old pair of sweatpants and an equally ancient sleeveless t-shirt, she looked wonderful.

"Hey," Ian murmured, enveloping her in a bear hug and inhaling her delightful fragrance.

Sara pulled back and eyed his pale, sweaty face. "You okay? You don't look so good."

"I feel awful," he admitted. "Would it be all right if I lay down for a while?"

"Sure. Here, let me take your coat and weapons harness." She helped him out of his overcoat and deftly unbuckled and removed the harness, hanging them on the coat rack.

Ian made a beeline for her bedroom and sat on the side of the bed to remove his boots, but when he bent over to untie them, the pounding in his head increased twofold, and he straightened with a soft groan.

"Let me," Sara said, kneeling at his feet and swiftly unlacing and pulling off his boots. "When did you start feeling sick?"

"Just after leaving Gabriel's," he said. "I think it was something I ate."

"The PB&Js?" She reached up and put a blessedly cool hand on his aching forehead. "You're a little warm," she murmured, worriedly recalling his recent bout with fever.

"I think it may have been the snacks I consumed," Ian told her, pulling his sweater and long-sleeved t-shirt over his head and tossing them aside. He unbuckled his belt and took off his pants and long johns, carelessly leaving them in a heap on the floor.

"What did Gabriel feed you?"

"Blue corn chips, barbecue potato chips, salsa, French onion and Ranch dip," he paused, squinting down at her, "humus, stoned-wheat crackers, Cheese Doodles, and two bowls of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream."

Sara's eyebrows shot up. "No wonder! What on earth possessed you to eat all of that junk?"

He avoided her gaze, shrugging. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that what you're suffering from is the after-effects of sugar overload. Let me guess: your stomach is upset, you've got a headache, and you feel tired and a little depressed. Am I right?"

"Yes," Ian confirmed. He lay down, biting back another groan as his stomach lurched unpleasantly and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. "Could you please make me a cup of peppermint tea, Sara?"

"Coming right up," she said, rising. She hesitated, then picked up a small plastic garbage pail and handed it to him. "Here, hold onto this. Just in case."

"Thank you." Sunk in nauseated misery, Ian lay there with his eyes closed, clutching the garbage pail to his chest, although he was grimly determined not to put it to use. Vomiting in his beloved's presence was one habit he refused to get into.

Sara returned a few minutes later with a cold compress, which she placed on his forehead. It felt heavenly.

"Poor baby," Sara soothed, sitting beside him and rubbing his roiling belly gently. "Do you think you could sleep for a little while?" she asked him. "I guarantee you'll feel better when you wake up."

"I would feel better right away if you lay down with me," Ian murmured. He winced as the kettle started to shrill, the sound aggravating his migraine.

"You got it. Just let me get your tea." She jumped up and hurried into the kitchen.

A minute later, she came back with a steaming mug of the fragrant tea, which she sat on the night table. "Here, sit up and let me rearrange the pillows so you can lean against them while you sip your tea," she said, removing the now-warm compress.

Ian complied, relinquishing the garbage pail, which Sara put next to the bed. Truth be told, he no longer wanted the tea; he just wanted Sara beside him. However, he knew he'd feel better if he drank it, so he picked up the mug. "Thank you for preparing it for me, my love," he said after taking a few sips.

"You're welcome."

Picking up his discarded clothing, Sara went around to the other side of the bed. She shook out and neatly folded his trousers and long johns and then turned his heavy, cable-knit sweater and thermal long-sleeved t-shirt right-side out, surreptitiously sniffing the outermost garment. Her sensitive nose detected a faint but unmistakable odor.

'_Ahhh,_' she thought. '_That explains the snack food binge. Looks like I'm gonna have to have a little talk with Gabriel about corrupting my man._'

She blinked in bemusement. '_My man!?!_'

Yes, Sara acknowledged, unconsciously nodding her head, that was precisely how she'd come to think of Ian Nottingham in the space of one long, very event-filled week. And what a man. Even though it was obvious he wasn't feeling his best at the moment, his masculine beauty mesmerized her. She could barely keep her hands off him.

Her cheeks grew warm as she recalled how she'd practically attacked him in the SUV earlier. Not that he'd seemed to mind. His eagerness to please her and willingness to try new things was really quite refreshing. All of her previous lovers had been far more experienced than she, so it was gratifying to be the teacher for once. Very gratifying. When it came to lovemaking, Ian Nottingham was an extremely apt and willing student.

'_That body of his oughta be illegal, like a highly addictive drug,_' she thought wryly, eyeing his impressive physique. Clad only in a black, sleeveless t-shirt and black briefs that left little to the imagination, he looked mighty tempting -- if you overlooked his pale, clammy skin and glazed, pain-darkened eyes, that was.

Ian put the empty mug back on the night stand and turned toward Sara. "I am going to try to sleep now," he told her, dislodging the pile of pillows at his back and laying his throbbing head on one.

"Okay," Sara murmured, glad that he'd failed to notice the lustful look on her face. She set his clothes on top of her dresser. "Do you want a blanket over you?"

He shook his head, pulling the elastic hair band from his hair. "No. I just want you next to me."

Sara lay down facing him, threading her fingers into his thick, dark curls and gently massaging his scalp and the base of his skull.

"Mmmm. That feels good," Ian sighed, as, like magic, the pain in his head receded. "But you are still too far away from me."

Smiling, Sara snuggled closer to him. "Better?"

"Much."

Within minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his big body became slack with sleep.

Sara lay there hoping that he would sleep through the night, or at the very least until the anticipated snowstorm really got going, so that he would be forced to stay with her instead of returning to Kenneth Irons. Having seen the physical evidence of his so-called father's cruelty on Ian's back, she could not shake the conviction that the egomaniacal billionaire would punish him for abandoning him to be with her. Ian had promised her that he wouldn't let him beat him again, but Sara was very afraid Irons would find a way to render him helpless, perhaps by exposing him to the disabling strobe lights, meaning Ian would have no choice but to submit to whatever punishment Irons saw fit to inflict on him.

As if sensing her unease, Ian flung an arm around her, gathering her even closer to him.

"Irons will not hurt him, Sara."

Sara started at the eerily familiar husky voice, and looked over to see Elizabeth Bronte standing in the bedroom doorway. Only then did she notice that the Witchblade's carnelian stone was glowing brightly.

"How can you be so sure of that?" she asked her, briefly wondering why she hadn't had the slightest inkling a vision was coming on.

Elizabeth reached up to pat her elegant coif with a white-gloved hand. She held her wide-brimmed hat in the other hand. "Because he doesn't dare risk alienating you even more than he already has. He is depending on Ian's love for him to insure that he obtains a regular supply of your blood, but he knows that if he harms Ian, he'll never get another drop from you. By the way, that was quite some performance the two of you put on for his benefit this morning. You have succeeded where countless others have failed: in outmaneuvering Kenneth Irons. Enjoy this victory while it lasts, Sara, but be forewarned that this is only the first of many skirmishes in a long battle fraught with danger," her spirit guide said.

"Tell me something I don't know," Sara snorted. "Like why the hell does the Witchblade want Kenny to stay in the picture?"

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you that. But I _can_ tell you that all will be revealed in time."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Figures. Can you at least tell me if I'm pregnant?"

Elizabeth laughed. "You're an impatient one, aren't you? That, too, will be revealed in due time. As you well know, now is not an opportune time to be starting a family. You have much to learn about wielding the Witchblade, Sara, and your life and that of your Protector may very well depend on your becoming proficient at it. Would it really be a tragedy if you were to discover that you haven't conceived?"

"Maybe not," Sara reluctantly conceded, "but it was kinda devious of the Witchblade to show us those visions of our future offspring. You know, until recently, I never considered myself the maternal type, but now I can honestly say that except for finding and putting away the bastard who murdered my father, I've never wanted anything as much as I want to hold those babies in my arms. It's freaking me out a little how bad I want it."

"Isn't it enough to know that perhaps one day you will?"

"I guess it'll have to be," Sara sighed. "Thanks for telling me that I don't have to worry about Irons hurting Ian. I can hardly bear the thought of him leaving here tonight to go back to the estate, but it'll be a lot easier to let him go now that I know he won't be beaten half to death when he gets there."

"I'm glad I could put your mind at rest in that regard. You must put on a brave face for your Protector, Sara, or else the pain of parting company with you will weigh even more heavily on him than it already does. Your bond has grown remarkably strong in just a few days, but this separation will test it -- and so will Kenneth Irons."

"No kidding? You know, you're really good at stating the obvious," Sara snipped, then immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. After all, you wouldn't be here if I didn't need your advice, would you?" She looked at the sleeping man beside her, her expression softening. "It's just that I'm really, really dreading this separation. I mean, when Ian's here, love and devotion practically radiates from him, but when we're apart, all of these doubts and fears start to creep back in. Besides, I wouldn't put it past Irons to try and brainwash him into turning his back on me."

"Oh, you can be certain that he will try to poison Ian's mind against you," Elizabeth told her, graciously ignoring Sara's insolence. "But you have at your disposal a most powerful weapon with which to combat this: your telepathic connection. The swiftness with which you and he formed this connection is astonishing. In the history of the Witchblade, very few Wielders and their Protectors have mastered this ability as quickly as you and Ian have. In fact, Kenneth is counting on the fact that you both still lack this talent. He mistakenly believes that the enmity you formerly showed Ian has made it impossible for you to trust him enough to open your mind to him. Demonstrating this powerful ability to Irons will deal him quite a blow, and will go a long way toward convincing him that your bond is indeed very strong,"

"But not enough to keep him from testing it, hunh?"

"I'm afraid not." She put on her hat. "It is simply not in his nature to give up without a fight. And, unfortunately, you were right in your assertion that he will never stop trying to regain control of the Witchblade. It has become his reason for living."

"Yeah, and the way things are going, my kids -- and maybe even their kids -- are going to be dealing with dear old Grandpa Irons, too. He's like the freaking undead!" Sara said in exasperation.

"That's an insult to self-respecting vampires everywhere," Elizabeth said, amusement coloring her tone. "Now rest, Sara," she bade her. "You're going to need it."

Suddenly, it felt as if lead weights were attached to Sara's eyelids. "Don't mind if I do," she yawned. "Catch you later."

"Goodbye, Wielder." Elizabeth Bronte's voice faded to a whisper. "Sweet dreams."

Ian woke feeling refreshed. The headache, queasiness, and lethargy were gone. A glance at the bedside clock informed him that it was 18:30, meaning he'd slept for more than three hours. Sara snored softly beside him, her slender body spooning with his. He noted that his left arm was draped possessively around her, and that his hand had once again managed to work its way beneath her t-shirt to cup her right breast. No matter what position they fell asleep in, they always ended up like this, Ian mused, like two halves forming a whole.

"I love you, Sara Pezzini," he whispered in her ear.

A smile appeared on her face, but her eyes remained closed as she murmured, "I love you, too, Ian Nottingham."

"I have to leave soon," Ian said.

"I know," she replied, still without opening her eyes, but her slim body tensed.

"You know I do not want to leave you."

"Yes, I do." She sighed, finally opening her stunning green eyes. "It's snowing."

Ian followed her gaze out into the living room and saw that she was right. Like a swarm of moths helplessly drawn to the dim light of the floor lamp near the window, large, fluffy flakes swirled against the windowpanes. Presently, the snow was coming down lightly, but from the eerie pink glow of the night sky, he could tell that the city was in for another substantial snowfall.

Sara heaved a forlorn sigh, which wrung Ian's heart but also had the effect of drawing his attention to the warm, pliant flesh cradled in the palm of his left hand as her bosom rose and fell with the deep breath. Somehow, he managed to resist the temptation to caress her. Inevitably, one thing would lead to another, and he seriously doubted that he'd be able to leave her if they made love again.

Breaking physical contact with Sara and getting out of her bed was perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. Tears pricked his eyes, and he was grateful that his hair hid them from her as he crossed the room to the dresser where his clothes sat.

"Contact me as soon as you reach the estate, so I know you got there safely," Sara said, sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest to hide the fact that she'd started trembling uncontrollably. "And I went you to check in with me frequently. Like, every hour."

"I will," Ian told her, dressing quickly. Lingering would only prolong the pain of their parting, he told himself grimly.

"Here's your hair band." Sara held it up, keeping her hand steady with an effort.

"Thank you," Ian said, surreptitiously dashing the tears from his cheeks before turning around. He took the elastic band from her. "I just need to use the bathroom, and then I am off."

"My hairbrush is in the medicine cabinet, if you need it."

'_All I need is you_,' Ian thought, noticing with a pang how sad and vulnerable she looked even though it was obvious she was trying to be stoic for his benefit. It made him love her even more, if that was possible. Out loud, he said, "Thank you, my love," and then escaped into the privacy of the bathroom before he lost his composure entirely.

Sara wilted as soon as the bathroom door closed behind Ian. "Oh, Witchy, I don't think I have the strength to let him go," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "I know I'm supposed to act brave, but it hurts so much!" But the red stone remained dark and inert.

Unable to bear sitting in the bed they'd so recently shared any longer, she jumped up and padded barefoot into the kitchen. '_Don't let him see you cry, Pezzini_,' she reprimanded herself. Turning on the kitchen faucet, she splashed cold water on her face and then patted it dry with a dish towel. When Ian came out of her bedroom a few minutes later, she'd managed to pull herself together.

He strode over to the coat rack and took down his weapons harness, putting it and then his overcoat, hat, scarf, and gloves on with quick, economical movements. Only then did he look at her.

"Good-bye, Sara," he said, his voice and face emotionless.

A rush of hurt filled her at his callousness, and she took two angry steps toward him. But then she saw his eyes.

"Oh, Ian!" Sara breathed, flinging herself into his open arms and hugging him tightly, pressing her face against his shoulder so that she couldn't see the terrible, naked pain in his beautiful eyes.

"My love, my sweet, sweet love," he whispered, raising a gloved hand to tenderly stroke her gleaming chestnut hair and back.

This was almost her undoing.

With a monumental effort, she pulled away and turned her back on him, breathing harshly. "Go now while I can still let you," she rasped, throat burning, fists clenched at her side.

When she turned around again, he was gone.

Blinded by tears, Sara staggered over to the couch and collapsed onto it, sobs wracking her slender body.

_Beloved?_

_Yes?_ The spark of warmth that was his telepathic presence in her mind miraculously began melting the ice that had gripped her soul.

_I am only a thought away. Never forget that._

_I'll try not to, my love. But, please, hurry back to me as fast as you can! This woman cannot exist on thought alone!_ she sent, hoping her desperation wasn't being communicated to him.

_I will return to you as soon as I can_, he promised. _You have my word on that._

_You better! Now, concentrate on driving safely. I'll speak to you again when you reach Scarsdale._

_Very well._

And just like that, Sara's world was not quite so desolate. Picking up the remote control from the coffee table, she turned on the TV, more because the sound made her feel a little less lonely than because she wanted to watch something. And even though she really didn't feel like eating anything, she warmed up her leftover Thai food and forced herself to eat a little of it. Her stomach was in knots, and Sara knew she would not be able to relax until she'd heard from Ian again, and had been reassured by him that Irons hadn't had him shot on sight.

More to come. Thanks to everybody, both old friends and new, who left me feedback. I read every one with pleasure, and look forward to more. Good news: the next chapter is already half-written (at least in my head), so the wait for the next installment shouldn't be as painfully long. Thanks again for your words of encouragement, dragongrrl.

15


	65. Chapter 66

Disclaimer: Same as the previous chapters. Enjoy!

Chapter 66.

_No one knows what it's like  
To be the sad man  
To be the bad man  
Behind blue eyes  
_

_No one knows what it's like  
To be hated  
To be fated  
To telling only lies  
_

_But my dreams  
They aren't as empty  
As my conscience seems to be  
_

_I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free_

From "Behind Blue Eyes" by Pete Townshend

Kenneth Irons sat in his darkened study, staring sightlessly into the roaring fire. He was his hale, hearty, and blessedly youthful self again, thanks to a minute infusion of the current Wielder's blood. He was also fit to be tied. How could Ian have done this to him? He'd given the boy everything: an unparalleled education, fine clothing, food, and lodging, and the best martial arts and military training money could buy. But the traitorous assassin had abandoned him to be with that bitch Sara Pezzini. She had well and truly ensorcelled him, and Kenneth was forced to admit that now that Ian had tasted the heretofore forbidden pleasures of the flesh, there was no going back. He'd made the egregious error of believing that Sara would never see Ian as a man, much less as a prospective mate. Yet, inconceivably, she had.

Courtesy of the cursed link he shared with the tart, Kenneth all too clearly sensed the intense pleasure she found in Ian Nottingham's embrace time and time again. In fact, he'd barely had time to revel in his miraculously swift recovery before sensing the apparently insatiable Wielder's passion flare again. Luckily, nobody had been around to witness his extreme discomfiture. The episode had been blessedly short in duration but no less passionate for its brevity, and had left his body bowstring tight with unrelieved sexual tension. That it was Ian who was gratifying Sara -- and was doubtlessly receiving gratification in turn -- only added insult to injury. But short of drinking himself into a stupor -- something Dr. Immo had strictly forbidden him to do following his recent near-death experience -- Kenneth was helpless to block out the second-hand sensations. Nor did he have a convenient outlet for his frustration. First, his rapidly deteriorating health had prevented him from seeking succor from any of his usual bedmates. Then, after he had recovered, the dire weather forecast and already treacherous roads had prevented any of them from traveling to the estate. Yet as punishing as the unrewarding libidinous stimulus was, even worse was the heightened level of anxiety he'd sensed from Sara shortly after sitting down for his evening meal. It had lasted only briefly, but the intensity of the emotion had tied his stomach in knots, ruining his appetite. With a disgusted sigh, he'd pushed away the untouched food and retreated to his study to sulk in private.

So sunk in brooding introspection was he, that Kenneth almost failed to notice the tiny displacement of air that signaled the intrusion of someone into his inner sanctum. He was on the point of snapping at whoever it was for their presumption when he suddenly realized that the infinitesimal breeze had come from the opposite direction of the study's entrance, meaning the intruder had entered the room by a secret passageway, the existence of which was known only to himself and one other person.

"So, the prodigal son returns," Kenneth murmured, now realizing what had caused the Wielder's acute distress: Her Protector had abandoned her to return to his rightful master. He was stunned by the rush of happiness that abruptly filled him at this unexpected development.

"Yes, father."

"You don't seem surprised to find me restored, Ian."

"No, sir."

"Obviously, you surmised that Dr. Immo could prepare a treatment from the scant few blood cells that Sara so carelessly left behind."

"I had hoped so." Ian came around into Kenneth's field of vision for the first time. "I am glad to see that I was right."

"And what if you had been wrong, eh? Would this have been a farewell visit?" Kenneth said, his sharp eyes taking in the younger man's appearance and instantly noting the lack of submissiveness in his posture. "Or do I dare hope that you've come to your senses and brought me the Witchblade?"

"I have indeed come to my senses, father," Ian agreed. "As for the Witchblade, It remains where It belongs. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of me."

"Your place is at my side, Ian!" Kenneth hissed, jumping to his feet.

"Not anymore."

Pale blue eyes clashed with unflinching hazel eyes.

To his everlasting shame, Kenneth was the first to look away. "Pah!" Waving a dismissive hand, he retook his seat. "These are the rantings of a willful child who has tasted both freedom and a deceitful woman's charms for the first time."

"I am not a child, father," Ian dared to contradict him. "And Sara has been nothing but honest with me from the moment I met her, which, incidentally, is also when I gave her my heart and, indeed, my very soul. I am in love with her. We belong together."

"Love!" Kenneth spat scornfully. "What do you know of love, Ian? She is a True Wielder. You perhaps better than anyone should know that love and happiness are not in her destiny. They rarely are where the Witchblade is concerned." Involuntarily, his gaze went to the alcove that housed the enclosure where his beloved Elizabeth Bronte reclined in frozen splendor on her chaise lounge.

"Rarely, yes," Ian was forced to admit, "but it is not unheard of." He made a pleading gesture with his gloved hands. "I love her, father, and I will do everything in my power to make her happy -- even turn my back on you."

"You've already made that abundantly clear," Kenneth snapped, hating how peevish his voice sounded even to his own ears.

"Please do not force me to choose between you and Sara, father. You would lose."

"What are you proposing? That I conscience this union simply because you wish it? Tell me something, Ian: Has Sara told you that she loves you in return?"

A look of such unmitigated joy passed over the younger man's features, that Kenneth shockingly found himself actually feeling glad for his son.

"Yes, she has," he said softly. "And I believe her."

Kenneth's brief feeling of goodwill evaporated. "Of course you do." He shook his head sadly. "You are so very gullible, Ian, and heartbreakingly innocent. Despite what you might think, I was only looking out for your best interests when I drilled into you that isolation is safety and virginity is invulnerability."

"Yes, while feeling free to indulge in your own pleasures whenever the mood struck you," Ian pointed out. "I could not have asked for a better role model."

Kenneth could not help but smile at his sarcasm. "Well, I never did believe in practicing what I preach," he sniffed. "But I would have been remiss in my duties as a father and as a mentor if I hadn't warned you about the dangers of the flesh. You fancy yourself in love, Ian, but you don't realize what you've let yourself in for. Do you really think you can satisfy Sara, or that she'll be content with you as her only lover for the rest of her days? Mark my words, Ian: the Wielder will use you up and then discard you when she tires of you."

"I am her Protector. She will never abandon me, just as I shall never abandon her. And although I will admit I am as yet far from an expert in such matters, I seem to be extremely capable of satisfying her, as I am sure you are well aware." For a split second, his gaze flicked to the raised scar on the back of his father's right hand before defiantly meeting his eyes again.

Ian's smug tone and newfound confidence caused Kenneth's blood pressure to shoot up, so much so, his head started pounding. With a mighty effort, he managed to unclench his fists and relax his jaw long enough to get his next words out. "Your insolence is unbecoming, Ian. If you are trying to curry favor with me, this is _not_ the way to go about it," he snarled.

"My apologies, father. My intent was not to antagonize you," Ian lied.

Kenneth heaved an aggrieved sigh. "I made you what you are, Ian, perhaps the most feared assassin in the world. Without my patronage, you wouldn't even have the clothes on your back, much less the training that allows you to keep your precious Wielder safe. What's more, Sara barely makes enough money on her detective's salary to support herself, much less the two of you. Think very carefully before you walk out on me."

"Yes, it is true that your wealth has enabled me to travel the world, to go places and to experience things most people will never have the opportunity to visit or do," Ian admitted slowly. "Yes, I am indebted to you for instilling in me an abiding love of knowledge, history, and art. And, yes, I have you to thank for making me an extremely efficient warrior, the better to do my duty, which is first and foremost to protect the Wielder. For that, you have my undying gratitude. But you have never seen fit to give me the one thing I have always desired from you, the one thing all the money in the world cannot buy, but should have been given freely."

"And what is that, Ian?" Kenneth asked, a look of utter boredom on his face as he examined the fingernails of his right hand.

"Your love," he replied quietly. "If, as you say, I walk out on you, I may no longer have your vast wealth and all that comes with it at my disposal, but I will have something you will never have: Sara's love. And that makes me a far richer man than you will ever be."

Kenneth smirked derisively. "How touching. And how predictably naïve. Love will not put food on the table or keep a roof over your head, Ian. How long would it be before Sara began to resent the burden that you'd quickly become, hmm?"

"We would figure something out," Ian said staunchly. "I could get a job."

"Doing what, pray tell?"

"Security work."

"Oh, and who would protect the Wielder while you toiled away at your minimum wage security guard job?"

Ian remained silent.

"You see, my dear boy, real life is a great deal more complicated than you realize. You are wholly unprepared to deal with the workaday world."

"And whose fault is that?" Ian queried bitterly. "I have spent my entire adult life putting your needs before my own, father. For years, I have unswervingly defended you from your enemies without a thought for my own safety. Yes, you provided a roof over my head and the clothes on my back, but my needs and desires never once crossed your mind. Well, the time has come for you to realize that I am more than just your bodyguard and henchman. I am your son. Does that truly count for nothing?"

"I could ask the same thing of you. For all you knew, the blood cells on that lancet might not have been enough to rejuvenate me, yet you left me to my fate without so much as a by-your-leave," Kenneth retorted, voice rising in anger. "Tell me, was that the act of a loving son?"

Ian had the grace to look ashamed. "Dr. Immo assured me that you were in no immediate danger of dying," he murmured. "And did you not hear me tell Sara that I would not stop trying to persuade her to change her mind about giving you her blood?"

"I believe your exact words were 'I will not stop appealing for his life until you change your mind or I learn of his death,'" Kenneth quoted testily.

"Then you will also recall that I begged her to reconsider her decision to deny you her blood. Had our positions been reversed, I find it very hard to believe that you would have begged for my life, father. As a matter of fact, that toxin you ordered Dr. Immo to inject me with very nearly cost me my life. It was a miracle that I survived," Ian reminded him. "Sara saw how close I came to dying because of you. Perhaps that is why she is so reluctant to show you any mercy."

"There were no miracles involved, Ian, and you know it," Kenneth said dismissively, and for a moment, Ian was afraid that he'd somehow discovered Dr. Immo's subterfuge with the antidote. But then he continued speaking. "The genetic enhancements you underwent -- at no small cost to Vorschlag Industries, mind you -- are to thank for your survival."

"Yet another way you demonstrated your peerless paternal instincts," Ian interjected scathingly, "by subjecting your young son to excruciatingly painful experimental procedures."

"Such gratitude," Kenneth sighed, shaking his head. "You are stronger, faster, and smarter than practically every other human being on earth, Ian. In fact, you're virtually indestructible. You recovered in mere days from an illness and injuries that would have put most men out of commission for weeks, if not permanently. The Wielder could not want for a better Protector. You should be thanking me instead of petulantly complaining about what was done to you as a child."

"You do not want my gratitude, father, nor, apparently, my love," Ian replied sadly. "You want my unswerving devotion and obedience. You cannot tolerate the fact that my allegiance has shifted to the Wielder, even though protecting her is my birthright. I came here tonight to begin the process of winning my freedom from you. Every minute I am apart from Sara is like an eternity, and I will do everything in my power to return to her side, even if it means walking out of here tonight into a raging blizzard without even the clothes on my back. I now realize that it was foolish of me to hope that you could understand how I feel about Sara because you, too, once loved a Wielder." He turned his head and looked toward Elizabeth's icy, see-through mausoleum.

"Don't you dare compare this childish infatuation to what I felt for Elizabeth!" Kenneth thundered, jumping to his feet again. In a blind fury, he snatched up his silver-handled cane, intending to strike Ian with it. But in a blur of movement it was ripped it from his hand before he could even raise it to shoulder level.

"No," Ian said, tossing the cane across the room, "you must never again raise a hand against me. My bond with Sara would instantly let her know that you beat me, and then you would never get another drop of her blood."

"Ah." With a gargantuan effort, Kenneth regained his composure. "There it is: Your trump card, as it were."

"This is not a game, father," Ian said, making an impatient slashing gesture with one gloved hand. "This is your life we are talking about."

"Indeed." Kenneth moved closer to the fire, briefly holding his hands out to the flames before rubbing the raised scar on the back of the right one. It itched and throbbed with Sara's simmering anxiety at being separated from her Protector/lover.

"You will probably consider this a deplorable weakness, but I cannot just stop caring about you, father," Ian said softly. "You were my entire world for far, far too long for me to be able to do that."

A brief silence fell between them, during which Kenneth struggled to overcome an alarming impulse to give his son a comforting hug. He blamed this moment of insanity on the younger man's forlorn expression and damnably expressive eyes. As a young child, that particular look had often earned Ian a reprieve from punishment for various minor infractions. But he had long since learned to hide his emotions behind subserviently downcast eyes and an expressionless mask for fear of appearing weak in his father's eyes. Now, however, apparently all gloves were off. For someone who prided themselves on being a heartless bastard as Kenneth Irons did, it was galling that this kind of blatant emotional manipulation should affect him to this degree. For a moment, he wondered if he was still suffering from the lingering after-affects of his brush with death. How else to explain this uncharacteristic emotionalism?

"I have given much thought to the proposal Sara laid out for me before she suffered a change of heart and consigned me to death," Kenneth finally admitted with obvious reluctance.

"Given time, I am certain I can persuade her to reconsider. Just give me the chance and I will prove it to you," Ian said earnestly.

"And all you ask in return is that I leave the two of you alone, is that it?"

"Yes."

"But what if you don't succeed in persuading her to change her mind?" Kenneth turned to look at him, watching his face closely. "What then? Dr. Immo says the effects of the latest treatment might begin to wear off soon, which means I will need another infusion, perhaps in as little as two weeks."

"Fine. Give me two weeks to change her mind," Ian responded instantly. "I am positive I can do it so long as you in turn give us your promise that you will stop interfering in our lives, as well as those of Sara's friends and family."

"_Sara's_ friends and family," Kenneth murmured silkily, his inference impossible to miss. "You would do well to remember that I am the only family you have, Ian. Do you honestly think you can ever truly be a part of her world? She is a police officer, as are her closest friends and confidantes. You, on the other hand, are a professional assassin. How do you think her fellow officers will react when they discover the truth about you?"

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it," Ian said after several moments, injecting just the right amount of uncertainty into his tone.

"Do you want to know what I think will happen, Ian?" Kenneth went on smoothly. "I think Sara will abandon you when her friends and colleagues ostracize her for taking up with someone like you. She will come to hate you for who you are, and I seriously doubt that you'll be able handle her eventual rejection. I think it would destroy you. Please believe me when I say I would rather spare you that fate."

"And please forgive me for being skeptical about your motives, father -- especially since you nearly did succeed in destroying me, first by arranging for me to be ambushed by _your_ enemies and then, for good measure, by poisoning me," Ian murmured, his uncharacteristically direct gaze hardening. But then he shrugged unconcernedly. "Besides, Sara already knows who I am, yet she still fell in love with me. We know that making our relationship work will not be easy, but we genuinely love and trust each other, and that is enough for both of us."

"For your sake, young Nottingham, I truly hope it is," Kenneth said softly, and was shocked to realize that he actually meant it.

Just then the doors to the study burst open, and Lieutenant Graham Hopkins came charging in, followed by a team of heavily armed guards, guns drawn.

"A passing servant heard you shouting, Mr. Irons," Hopkins said, leveling his weapon at Ian Nottingham. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, Lieutenant," Kenneth waved a hand dismissively. "Everything is fine. As you can see, Ian has returned to us."

Hopkins gave the black-clad man a curt nod. "Nottingham."

Ian returned the gesture. "Lieutenant."

"Well, Ian, I hear the weather outside has deteriorated badly, which means it would be wise of you to spend the night," Kenneth said briskly. "I suggest we continue our conversation over breakfast."

"That would be agreeable," Ian acquiesced.

"Excellent. Good night, son. And welcome home."

"Good night, father."

Graham Hopkins blinked. '_What the --!?! "Son!?!" "Father!?!" "Welcome home!?!"_' He tensed as Nottingham approached him.

"Impressive shiners," the assassin murmured as he passed him on his way to the door.

But the contingent of armed guards still blocked the exit, weapons at the ready. His men glanced toward Hopkins uneasily, obviously unnerved by Nottingham's unblinking stare and proximity but unwilling to make a move without an express order from their commanding officer. They'd heard about this morning's confrontation from several of the walking wounded, and were well aware of how many of their number had ended up in the infirmary.

"Stand down," Graham muttered nasally, gingerly touching the bandage on the bridge of his swollen, cotton-packed nose. '_Smug bastard!_'

The men broke ranks, and Nottingham strode from the room without a backward glance.

As soon as the doors closed behind him, Kenneth Irons gestured for the lieutenant to come closer to him.

Realizing that he wished to speak to him in private, Graham said, "Dismissed."

Irons waited until the men had filed out of the room before speaking. "I want Ian's every move monitored, Lieutenant," he said, the flickering flames in the hearth adding absolutely no warmth to his cold blue eyes. "See to it personally and report back to me."

"Yes, sir."

Irons returned to contemplating the fire, effectively dismissing the lieutenant.

Graham turned on his heel and stalked from the room. '_Can't say I envy Nottingham having him as a father,_' he thought grimly. '_Talk about Daddy Dearest!_'

Once he was alone again, Kenneth pondered this latest turn of events. Try as he might, he simply could not deny the fact that he was happy that Ian had returned home. But the younger man's talk of winning his freedom from him disturbed him greatly. Never for a single moment had Kenneth ever doubted his son's loyalty until the Witchblade had chosen Sara Pezzini as Its next Wielder. After that, it had quickly become apparent that Nottingham was smitten with her. Now he'd made it painfully clear that he'd chosen her over him, and this was terribly hard for Kenneth to swallow. Unfortunately, as things now stood, it would seem he had no alternative but to tolerate Ian's relationship with Sara. Not if he wanted to ensure his continued survival, which was contingent on his erstwhile bodyguard persuading the witch to willingly part with her precious blood. So, swallow his pride he would -- until he could figure out a way to regain the upper hand, that was. And even if it took him years to do so, Kenneth Irons solemnly swore to himself that he would.

As he headed toward his quarters, Ian telepathically contacted Sara.

_(Sara?)_

_(Yeah?)_

_(I'm here, safe and sound, and I've already spoken with my father, who, by the way, is fully rejuvenated. Our talk went a lot better than I thought it would, but, as you might imagine, he's not at all pleased with me.)_

_(Poor Kenny. I feel for him,)_ Sara said acerbically._ (Ian, it's really storming out, so I guess you're gonna spend the night there, hunh?)_ she queried, her disappointment and apprehension palpable.

_(Yes. We did not get a chance to finish our discussion, but I think I've managed to convince him to give me two weeks to persuade you to change your mind about providing him with a regular supply of your blood, in return for which he must promise to stop interfering with our lives,)_ Ian told her. _(Of course, we cannot trust him to keep that promise, but it's a start.)_

_(Yeah, it's a start.) _Skepticism colored her "voice."_ (Listen, Ian, I meant it when I said I want you to contact me once an hour, even if it means neither of us gets much sleep tonight,)_ Sara reiterated. _(Not that it matters; I won't be able to rest easy with you under Irons' roof instead of here with me where you belong.)_

_(I, too, doubt that I'll be able to fall asleep without you next to me, my love,)_ Ian replied longingly. _(However, if it's any consolation, I don't think my father would dare do anything to me while I slept. I made it crystal clear to him that if he ever lifts a hand against me again, he'll never get another drop of your blood.)_

_(Damn straight!)_ she growled. _(So, where are you now?)_

_(On my way to my quarters. I'm going to change into sweats and then head for the gym. It's been too long since I had a good workout.)_

_(Yeah, me, too. But don't wear yourself out completely. You and me have a "phone sex" date later,)_ Sara reminded him.

_(Hmmm. On second thought, maybe I'll just do a light workout. Something tells me I'm going to need my energy!)_

_(You got that right!) _Sara chuckled._ (I'm gonna try my best to give new meaning to the term "psychic hotline"!)_

Ian's amusement thrummed across their connection. _(I'll be in touch shortly,_ he said. _(No pun intended!)_

Sara shouted out loud with laughter. _(Oh, this is gonna be fun! Later, Cowboy!)_

On the way to the gym, Ian stopped in to visit Dr. Immo in the infirmary, which he could not help but notice was a lot more crowded than it had been that morning -- so crowded, in fact, a couple of gurneys had been left in the hallway, on which lay injured soldiers. As Nottingham passed by one of them, he opened his eyes, which widened in horrified recognition. He made a strangled noise that sounded very much like "eep!" and shrank as far away from Ian as he could.

"Ian!" Dr. Immo said with genuine pleasure when Ian pushed open the door to his room. "So kind of you to visit me again!" He put aside the book he'd been reading.

"Yes, I wanted to apologize for the Wielder's impertinence in striking you earlier," Ian told him. "I am afraid she is a bit overprotective when it comes to me."

"Apology accepted, although complete unnecessary. I meant what I said earlier about deserving it," Immo said, absently fingering the bruise on his cheek. "I take it you've spoken with your father."

"Yes. We have managed to smooth over our differences for the moment. He has all but agreed to give me some time to try and persuade Sara to change her mind about denying him her blood. I expect a decision from him shortly, perhaps as soon as tomorrow morning."

"That is good news. It was fortuitous that the Wielder's blood was left behind. At first, I had my doubts that the minute amount would be enough, but, as you saw for yourself, the treatment was completely restorative," the doctor said. "The process was much more rapid than it had been with Elizabeth's blood. In fact, it was astonishing how quickly Kenneth became rejuvenated."

Ian hesitated for a moment, fully aware that their conversation was being monitored. "Tell me, Doctor, what effect, if any, would a pregnancy have on the effectiveness of Sara's blood in rejuvenating my father?" he asked.

Dr. Immo's grey-blue eyes widened behind his glasses. "Is that a possibility at this juncture, Ian?"

"Hypothetically speaking, Doctor."

"Oh. Well, of course, a woman's blood chemistry does undergo certain changes when she conceives. However, I'm afraid I haven't had the opportunity to find out what effect, if any, it would have on Mr. Irons. You see, Elizabeth was very careful not to become pregnant, given her precarious situation during the war." He paused. "But since this is a hypothetical question, can I safely assume you took precautions to prevent an accidental pregnancy, Ian?"

"Both Sara and I have concluded that it is doubtful the Witchblade would allow her to conceive given her own rather precarious situation at present," Ian replied. "But to answer your question, no, we did not take precautions. However, I suspect I may be unable to father children owing to the fact that I suffered from an extremely high fever for a prolonged period of time. I once read that this has been known to render males sterile."

"True," Immo agreed. "But given your genetic enhancements, specifically your accelerated healing ability, I would say you have absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. Henceforth, Ian, I would strongly advise that you and Sara use protection," the older man cautioned him. "Condoms will do in a pinch, but there are other options to consider. I would be happy to go over them with you if you like."

"Thank you for answering my question, Doctor," Ian said, unable to refrain from smiling at the other man's implication that there would be future occasions in which he and Sara would need to use contraceptives. If his father was in fact eavesdropping, he'd gotten an earful. He was also undoubtedly livid at the prospect that Ian had impregnated Sara.

"Any time, my boy," Dr. Immo replied fondly. "Will you please stop by and see me again before you leave?"

"Certainly. Hopefully, you will soon be well enough to leave the infirmary."

"I hope so, too."

"See you later, Dr. Immo." Ian left and headed for the gym, two levels up.

In the past, Ian would have gone out of his way to avoid upsetting his father for fear of retribution. The scars on his back were proof that it was not wise to provoke the capricious billionaire. But now Ian could not care less about ruffling his feathers. In fact, the thought that Kenneth Irons was at this very moment beside himself with rage was curiously satisfying. It was empowering to know that he had the ability to get under his father's skin. Ian had not been fooled for a moment by Irons' superciliously detached façade as they'd talked. Several times, he'd clearly sensed his former master's irritation at Ian's newfound confidence and impertinent responses. Still, it had been shocking how completely his father's urbane mask had slipped when Ian had mentioned his lost love, Elizabeth Bronte. Could it be possible that some old wounds had never healed? He didn't like thinking about this possibility because it made Kenneth Irons somehow more human.

Ian had finished his warm-up exercises and was in the process of selecting a katana from the extensive collection displayed on the wall when he became aware of someone else's presence in the spacious, well-equipped gymnasium. He glanced over his shoulder to see Graham Hopkins tossing a towel onto the bench of a weight machine on the other side of the gym. Like Ian, the lieutenant was dressed in sweats. The younger man began warming up, apparently intending to work out, too. However, Ian was not fooled in the least by his sudden appearance; he figured Hopkins had been ordered to keep a close eye on him and was simply following orders.

Ignoring him, Ian began to perform a series of katas with the katana he'd chosen. He spared a few moments to lament the loss of the blade he'd been forced to abandon on the roof of the warehouse last Thursday night. He had a vague memory of tossing it onto the roof of the adjacent building seconds before the Russian stinger missile had exploded, but he couldn't be certain that this wasn't some delusion his feverish mind had created in an effort to ease the pain of losing such a magnificent weapon. It was one of three that had been specially made for him by a master swordmaker in Kyoto many, many years ago. That man was now dead, and his art was slowly dying out, too. There were only a handful of people left on earth who could legitimately be called master swordmakers. Even fewer could be considered true swordmasters. Ian Nottingham was one of them. Idly, he wondered if perhaps the sword had been found before the fire had engulfed the warehouse. If so, there was a chance he could get it back. With his father's connections, it would be a simple matter for it to disappear from the evidence locker it was probably sitting in. Frowning, Ian did a mental double take. No, he would not be beholden to Kenneth Irons for anything ever again, even if it meant recovering one of his priceless blades. Besides, Sara would have been terribly upset by this blatant evidence of corruption in the New York City Police Department. The sword was lost to him, and that was that, he decided resignedly.

Once he'd figured out Nottingham's intended destination, Graham Hopkins decided that he might as well get in a workout while keeping an eye on the other man. However, shortly after he began warming up, he realized that the slightest exertion caused his broken nose to throb excruciatingly. Doggedly, he resolved to ignore the discomfort and continue his workout. But in spite of himself, all pretense of working out was soon forgotten, and he found himself openly watching the other man.

Balancing lightly on his bare feet, Ian Nottingham flowed through a series of graceful, intricate movements, the gleaming sword in his right hand seeming to be an extension of his arm. He began to parry an imaginary opponent's thrusts, moving so fast at times, his form blurred. Then he went on the attack, moving, if possible, even faster. If Graham hadn't witnessed it with his own eyes, he never would have believed that someone could move that quickly. It got him to thinking.

Back when he'd been in the Seals, he'd heard about Nottingham's legendary former Special Ops unit, the Black Dragons. Navy Seals prided themselves on their toughness, and rightfully so. The training regimen one had to go through in order to become a Seal was infamous for its brutality. But it was said that the training the Dragons had endured made the Seals' boot camp resemble that of a summer camp for little kids. And then there were the whispered rumors that the former members of the unit had undergone experimental drug therapies and hard-core psych conditioning. Once, shortly after he'd come to work for Kenneth Irons, Graham had done some research on the Dragons, but practically all of the information had been classified. In fact, he knew precious little about Ian Nottingham other than that he was supposedly a former member of that elite unit. The fact that he was also Kenneth Irons' son had been an extremely well-kept secret.

Just then, Nottingham paused in his exertions to peel off his soaked sweatshirt, revealing a sleeveless black t-shirt, a sleekly muscular upper body, and impressive biceps. As he began a series of cool-down exercises, Graham caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his right forearm. Even from a distance, he could tell what it was: a black dragon rampant.

'_So,_' he thought, '_it's true: Nottingham is a Black Dragon, which means he's one bad-ass motherfucker. No wonder that female homicide detective ran off with him._'

At the thought of Sara Pezzini, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through Graham's head, and he swayed on the padded bench of the weight machine, a low moan escaping his lips. Grasping his aching head in both hands, Graham wondered if the doctors who'd treated him had been premature in clearing him to return to duty. When he'd regained consciousness in the infirmary, he at first thought he might have suffered a concussion, because although he clearly recalled seeing Detective Pezzini with Nottingham in the tunnel beneath the estate, things got kind of hazy after that. However, he'd been checked out thoroughly by a neurologist and pronounced fit to return to duty, with only an admonition to take it easy for a couple of days. The taser burns on his neck had solved the mystery of how he'd been rendered unconscious, but for the life of him, Graham could not remember receiving the blow that had broken his nose. He had only vague, dreamlike memories of his men falling like flies around him. Having witnessed how inhumanly fast Ian Nottingham moved, he was forced to concede that it was entirely possible the man had taken him and his men out single-handedly. The alternative -- that Sara Pezzini had defeated them -- was inconceivable. Or was it? He flinched violently as he suddenly became aware of the fact that Nottingham was standing less than a foot away from him. He'd neither heard nor seen him approach.

"I wanted to thank you for keeping my father safe in my absence, Lieutenant," the assassin said without preamble, his piercing eyes meeting Graham's unfocused gaze.

"Um, you're welcome?" Graham said uncertainly, squinting up at him.

"Are you unwell, Lieutenant?" Ian asked, taking note of the younger man's pallor and difficulty focusing.

"Clarify something for me if you would, Nottingham," Hopkins said, ignoring his question. "Was it you or Detective Pezzini who kicked our asses in that tunnel earlier today?"

The dark-haired man's expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you not remember what happened?"

"Would I be asking you if I did?" Graham muttered, rubbing his temples. "And, no, I didn't suffer a concussion. Or so the doctors claim."

"Both Detective Pezzini and I engaged you and your men in combat, Lieutenant," Ian said truthfully. "Although it is safe to say that she did most of the damage." '_He has no memory of the Witchblade,_' he realized. '_And it's a safe bet that none of his men do either. So, the legends are true: the Blade has the power to erase the memories of those who look upon It and are lucky enough to survive the encounter. Good to know._'

"She has one mean right hook," Hopkins said, touching his bandaged nose ruefully. "Uh, if it's all right with you, I'm gonna let my men go on thinking that you took them out all by your lonesome, Nottingham. It would be terrible for morale if they found out their butts had been thoroughly whipped by a woman."

"I understand," Ian said equably. But then his unnerving gold-flecked gaze grew cold. "But make no mistake: if you or your men ever attempt to harm Sara Pezzini again, I will kill every last one of you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Graham said, somehow refraining from shrinking back in terror from the promise of death in those eyes. But then a strange thing happened.

Nottingham's gaze became distracted, and he cocked his dark head, as though listening to a voice only he could hear. Graham blinked as the other man's expression softened considerably and a crooked grin appeared on his lips, which had the effect of making him seem years younger and downright approachable. Even more shockingly, he gave a throaty chuckle and began absentmindedly toying with the drawstring closure of his sweatpants. All of a sudden, the lieutenant got the oddest impression that he was inadvertently eavesdropping on an intimate conversation, albeit a one-sided one. He didn't understand why he should feel this way when not a word was being spoken aloud, but he did. It was at once unsettling and intriguing. As the minutes crawled by, Graham began to wonder if Nottingham would even notice if he slipped away. Deciding to test this theory, he started to reach for his towel, but the assassin's bird-of-prey eyes instantly sharpened on him, and he froze.

"If you will excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins," Nottingham murmured politely, "I am returning to my quarters to masturbate."

Ian blinked. '_No, I didn't just say that, did I_?' he thought, but then he noticed the look of barely contained amusement on Hopkins' face. "Uh, meditate," he said, clearing his throat, bright-red color suffusing his bearded features. "I am returning to my quarters to meditate, and then I am retiring for the night, so your surveillance duties have concluded for today."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Graham said, rising and smartly saluting him. "Good night, Mr. Nottingham. Enjoy your . . . meditation. I, too, enjoy . . . meditating from time to time."

"Good night, Lieutenant," Ian muttered, avoiding his eyes, and turning he strode quickly from the gymnasium. Unfortunately, his keen hearing enabled him to hear the other man's guffaws long after he'd left the room.

More to come. There. That wasn't so bad was it? Thanks, as always, to everybody who took the time to leave feedback. It's always much appreciated and highly anticipated. Keep it coming, and I'll keep the chapters coming! dragongrrl

17


	66. Chapter 67

A Family Affair

Disclaimer: Same as the other chapters.

Author's note: WARNING: This chapter contains explicit language and sexual situations that are unsuitable for impressionistic youngsters under the age of 17 and anybody who has a problem with that sort of thing. You've been warned, so please don't report me to ! Enjoy!

Chapter 67.

_I love myself   
I want you to love me   
When I'm feelin' down   
I want you above me   
I search myself   
I want you to find me   
I forget myself   
I want you to remind me_

From "I Touch Myself" by The Divinyls

While waiting to hear from Ian, Sara alternated between pacing restlessly and sitting on her couch staring unseeingly at the TV. It was only through sheer force of will that she refrained from reaching out to him telepathically during the more than two hours that he was out of contact with her. Her imagination began to run wild, and as the minutes slowly ticked by, she became convinced that Kenneth Irons had captured Ian and was beating and torturing him to death. The only thing that enabled her to retain her sanity was the ember of warmth that occupied a corner of her mind, which she'd come to identify as Ian's consciousness. She discovered that if she opened her awareness up, she could sense strong emotions from him. This was how she came to realize that he was confronting Irons. At first, she'd been miffed that Ian hadn't contacted her to let her know that he'd reached the estate safely like he'd said he would, but the maelstrom of powerful emotions emanating from him soon reminded her of how very difficult this was for him. After that, she concentrated all of her energy on sending positive thoughts his way. Still, when Ian finally got around to contacting her, she felt giddy with relief that her worst fears hadn't been realized, and she instantly forgave him for making her wait so long. She was even able to hold out for another 45 minutes before reaching out to him again.

(_Ian?_)

(_Yes, my love?_) he responded instantly.

(_Are you done working out yet?_)

(_Yes. I was just about to head back to my quarters for a much-needed shower._)

(_Um, you might wanna hold off on showering 'cause if we do this right, things could get kinda messy, if you know what I mean._)

(_I'm beginning to get an idea,_) he replied, his psychic chuckle causing a grin to appear on her own lips.

(_Um, Ian, you have done this -- masturbated -- before, haven't you?_) Sara asked him.

(_Not in a very long time,_) he replied. (_My father frowned upon the practice. He considered it a sign of weakness._)

(_How long is a very long time?_) she queried curiously.

(_Not since adolescence,_) Ian admitted. (_I'll spare you the details of my father's methods of dissuading me from getting into the habit of pleasuring myself._)

Sara shuddered involuntarily. (_Uh, thanks, I appreciate it._)

(_What about you, Sara? When was the last time you masturbated?_) he asked her.

(_Good question. Not as long as your drought, that's for damn sure, but it's been a while. Let me think._) There was a brief pause. (_Hmmm, I seem to remember making love by myself a couple of months before the Witchblade chose me. To be honest, it's not something I do unless I'm really, really hard up. Don't forget, I went to Catholic school, where we were taught that it was a sin to masturbate. In fact, it's a wonder I like sex at all!_) she mused wryly.

(_I honestly don't understand how anybody could not like sex,_) Ian proclaimed. (_Of any kind. It's fun, it feels really, really good, and it's what nature intended us to do!_)

Sara laughed at his vehemence. (_Spoken like a true believer! But you gotta understand that all of my teachers were nuns who'd taken vows of celibacy. In fact, I seriously doubt any of them would've recognized a penis if you'd hit them over the head with one. They took saving our immortal souls very seriously, and that meant threatening us with eternal damnation if we so much as thought about having premarital sex -- even by ourselves!_)

(_Sounds oppressive,_) Ian opined.

(_This from someone who has lived under Irons' thumb for most of his life! But now that's all changed! You, my little Ian bird, are gonna spread your wings and learn how to spank the monkey with the best of them!_) Sara said gleefully.

(_"Spank the monkey"?_)

(_My favorite euphemism for masturbating. So, are you ready to go?_)

(_Um, I think I should wait until I reach the privacy of my quarters. I'm still in the gym -- and I'm not alone._)

(_Who's there with you?_)

(_Lieutenant Hopkins. Apparently, my father has ordered him to keep tabs on me. By the way, the lieutenant is sporting a matching set of black eyes thanks to the broken nose you gave him._)

Sara gave a mental shrug. (_Serves him right for working for somebody like Kenny!_)

(_Sara, I made a very interesting discovery after speaking with Lieutenant Hopkins: Neither he nor his men have any memory of the Witchblade,_) Ian informed her.

(_Really? I guess that explains the weird trance-like state he entered when I pointed the gauntlet at him._)

(_Indeed._) Abruptly, a rush of acute embarrassment filtered through the telepathic bond.

(_Ian?_)

(_Um, I'm here,_) he said distractedly.

(_What just happened?_)

(_I'd, uh, rather not say,_) he responded stiltedly.

(_Huh. Well, based on what I just sensed, I'm willing to bet your face is bright red,_) Sara hazarded.

(_You'd be right,_) Ian reluctantly admitted. (_Let's just say I uttered a Freudian slip as I was bidding Lieutenant Hopkins good night and leave it at that, shall we?_)

(_Come on, you can tell me what you said,_) Sara cajoled. (_I promise I won't laugh at you._)

(_Very well,_) he finally acquiesced. (_When you contacted me, I was in the process of promising to kill Lieutenant Hopkins if he ever tried to harm you again -- after thanking him for keeping my father safe in my absence, of course._)

(_Uh, yeah. Right. Of course._) Sara's lips quirked. (_It's good to know that you're still adhering to the Assassin's Code of Etiquette,_) she teased him.

There was a pregnant pause. (_On second thought, I don't think I'll continue,_) he murmured, his "voice" distinctly disgruntled. (_You're already making fun of me and I haven't even gotten to the embarrassing part yet._)

(_Okay, okay! No more smart-alecky remarks,_) Sara said quickly in her most conciliatory tone. (_Please, go on._)

(_Hmm._ _Anyway, I became distracted by our conversation, and, to be perfectly honest with you, I forgot that the lieutenant was even there._ _I only took notice of him again when he tried to sneak away. But instead of simply letting him leave, I said "If you will excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins, I am returning to my quarters to masturbate."_)

(_No!_) Sara gasped. (_You didn't!_) And then she burst out laughing, her unrestrained amusement clearly telegraphed to a chagrinned Ian Nottingham.

His put-upon sigh gusted along their connection. (_Yes, I'm afraid I did. What I meant to say was "I am returning to my quarters to meditate." Unfortunately, that's not how it came out._)

(_Omigod, that's freaking hilarious, Nottingham!_) Sara said, still giggling uncontrollably. ("_Excuse me while I go masturbate." Priceless!_)

(_It's all your fault, you know,_) Ian accused. _(And you promised you wouldn't laugh at me,_) he reminded her grumpily.

(_Sorry!_) Sara sent contritely, controlling her mirth with an effort. (_So, how did Hopkins respond?_)

Ian snorted in disgust. (_He laughed at me, too. He had the good grace to wait until I'd left the room, but courtesy of my enhanced hearing, I know he laughed long and hard at my slip of the tongue,_) he admitted ruefully.

(_Um, I meant how did he respond to your promise to kill him if he ever tried to harm me again,_) Sara clarified, biting her cheek to keep from busting out laughing again.

(_Oh._) That single syllable spoke volumes. (_I think he got the message that it was no idle threat._)

(_Good. Speaking of long and hard, have you reached your quarters yet?_)

(_Yes._)

(_Okay, here's what you're gonna need to keep handy -- no pun intended -- a bottle of lotion and a box of Kleenex._) she told him.

There was a brief pause. (_Got them._)

(_Good. Now get undressed and lie down on your bed._) Sara followed her own instructions and stretched out on her own bed.

(_I'm lying down, Sara,_) Ian said a couple of minutes later.

(_Excellent. Are the lights on or off?_)

(_Off. I lit a couple of masturbation, uh, meditation candles._)

As he'd obviously intended, Sara laughed. (_Perfect. I've got Jasmine-scented candles burning and I'm lying here naked, too,_) she told him. She looked down at her bare body, which was bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight, and sent Ian a mental snapshot of the image. Abruptly, the Witchblade's carnelian stone flared to life, adding a lurid red glow to the room.

(_You're so beautiful, my love,_) Ian murmured, and a moment later he reciprocated by sending her a picture of himself in all of his naked glory.

(_So are you, lover,_) Sara purred, running her fingertips over her breasts, causing the ultra-sensitive nipples to instantly harden into taut peaks. (_Mmmm, you look good enough to eat!_)

(_Speaking of eating, did you know that you taste better than a perfectly ripe peach?_)

(_No, I didn't._ _Did you know that your cock is as perfect as the rest of you?_) Sara breathed, the fingers of her right hand skimming over her abdomen to delve into the dark curls below her waist.

(_No, I didn't._)

(_Well, it is, and I love the way you feel inside of me. Are you ready for me yet, lover?_) she asked, her "voice" husky with need.

(_Getting there,_) he sighed, glumly eyeing his burgeoning erection and wishing he could inhale her beguiling scent, touch her satiny soft skin, and watch her beautiful face as he buried himself inside her.

(_Good._ _Now, pour a little lotion in the palm of your right hand and let it warm up for a couple of minutes._)

Ian did as she asked, goose bumps pebbling his bare skin as he clearly sensed her ardor rising in lockstep with his own. He was a little surprised by how uninhibited he felt, given his extremely repressive upbringing. In fact, before he and Sara had made love that first time, he'd never even slept in the nude. Now here he was, about to rediscover the joys of masturbation! Ian couldn't help but smile as he recalled his intense mortification when Dr. Immo had suggested that he try this very same thing less than a week ago. So very much had changed since then. And although this exercise in self-gratification was a poor substitute for the real thing, he was profoundly grateful that their fledgling empathic bond and strong telepathic connection allowed he and Sara to connect in this fashion. Otherwise, their forced separation would have been utterly unbearable.

(_I'm already wet with wanting you, baby,_) Sara moaned, dipping her index finger into her slick sheath and then massaging her juices into the lushly swollen petals of her sex. She kept picturing Ian's superbly conditioned body in her mind's eye, and literally ached to feel his strong arms around her and his hard-muscled body against and deep inside hers.

(_I think the lotion has warmed up, Sara_) he sent a tad breathlessly, having sprung to full attention between one heartbeat and the next.

(_Then it's time for some hand action. Go for it, Cowboy!_) Sara urged him, her own fingers rubbing her throbbing clit insistently. (_I'm almost there!_)

(_I can sense that._) Grasping himself with his right hand, he coated his pulsating shaft with lotion and began rapidly stroking his distended length.

(_Feels good, doesn't it?_) she murmured, clearly sensing his heightened pleasure, which had the exhilarating effect of redoubling her own.

(_Yeah, but it just can't compare to being inside you, my love,_) he told her.

Pausing briefly, he sent Sara an image of the rampant evidence of his desire. (_See how badly I want you, Sara?_) he groaned.

(_Yeah, baby. Looking good, Mr. Hoodie! Your home-sweet-home feels tragically empty without you,_) Sara panted, longing for him to fill her. She'd toyed with the idea of breaking out the dildo that she kept stashed in the top drawer of her dresser, but had decided against it for fear of offending Ian. Manual stimulation would have to do this time around.

(_Hey, don't forget about the twins, Ian!_) she reminded him. (_I sure wouldn't._)

(_The twins?_) It took a moment for his passion-fogged brain to figure out what she meant. (_Oh. Right._) Reaching down with his free hand, Ian gingerly massaged his aching balls, never breaking the pumping rhythm of his right hand. Deliciously, the coil of tension at the base of his spine wound tighter, causing his back to arch and his toes to curl in anticipation of his imminent release.

(_You there yet, Cowboy?_)

(_Al . . . most!_) he barely managed to get out. He sucked in a lungful of air as his entire body clenched.

Sara sensed that he was on the brink, just as she herself was. (_Quick! Grab a bunch of tissues!_) she bade him with her last coherent thought. Seconds later, a powerful orgasm ripped through her, and she trembled uncontrollably, crying out.

Simultaneously, Ian shuddered violently, his shout of completion echoing in Sara's mind and quivering body.

It was several minutes before either of them could muster the energy to communicate with each other.

(_Wow!_) Sara sent, her heart still racing.

(_I agree,_) Ian seconded. (_That was amazing._)

(_Were you able to grab the tissues in time?_)

(_Not even close,_) he admitted ruefully.

(_Sorry about that!_) she apologized.(_I would have given you more warning, but I was kinda preoccupied with getting off._)

(_That's all right, my love. I'm overdue for a shower anyway,_) he told her, chuckling. (_I guess we did it right, hunh?_)

(_Amen to that!_) she agreed. (_But I really miss cuddling with you afterwards, baby._)

(_Me, too,_) Ian murmured wistfully. (_But perhaps you'd care to "join" me in the shower?_) he suggested, brightening.

(_Don't mind if I do!_) Sara accepted enthusiastically. (_Lead on, Cowboy!_)

With a renewed sense of energy, Ian leapt up from his bed and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

Still chuckling to himself, former Navy Seal, Lieutenant First Class Graham Hopkins headed for the study, where his employer was presumably still ensconced. His mind kept replaying Ian Nottingham's puzzling behavior leading up to his hilarious slip of the tongue. If Graham hadn't known better, he would have thought the assassin was wearing a wireless earpiece through which he'd been communicating with someone -- and he was willing to bet that that someone was NYPD Homicide Detective Sara Pezzini. But Nottingham hadn't been wearing an earpiece, which made the way he'd acted more than a little bizarre. Graham stopped dead in his tracks as a truly horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him. Could the assassin have been coming on to him? He shuddered visibly. No, that simply didn't bear thinking about. Plus, just before he'd begun acting strangely, Nottingham had threatened in no uncertain terms to kill him. Unless that been some weird kind of professional assassin come-on . . . Shaking his head, he continued walking. _Nah_. Besides, Graham was positive that Nottingham had completely forgotten that he was even there until he'd attempted to leave. Still, he'd learned to trust his sense of intuition, and it told him that somehow Nottingham had been communicating with his lady love, Detective Sara Pezzini. But how? Telepathy? Graham snorted. _Yeah, right!_ But as preposterous as this notion was, it got him to thinking once again about the experimental drug therapies that Nottingham and his fellow Black Dragons were rumored to have undergone. Could they have resulted in him possessing telepathic powers? But that wouldn't explain how Detective Pezzini had also developed these abilities. Which brought him back to his maddeningly hazy recollection of that morning's confrontation with Nottingham and the detective in the escape tunnel. Try as he might, he simply couldn't recall anything beyond that fact that both of them had been there. All he'd gotten for his trouble was a splitting headache. It was a mystery, and Graham hated mysteries -- especially those that involved him. Maybe his employer could shed some light on the subject, he thought as he reached the billionaire's private study.

"Come," Kenneth Irons commanded imperiously when Graham discreetly knocked on the doors.

"Mr. Nottingham has retired for the night, Mr. Irons," he stated without preamble after coming to stand at attention before the billionaire, who was seated in his throne-like chair in front of the roaring fire. "But before that, he visited Dr. Immo in the infirmary for approximately five minutes and then went to the gymnasium and worked out for 45 minutes."

"I see. Tell me, Lieutenant, what did you and Ian speak about in the gym?" Irons asked, cold blue eyes pinning him where he stood.

Graham blinked. _This whole place is under surveillance,_ he realized. _Why doesn't that surprise me?_ Aloud, he said, "Oh, uh, he thanked me for keeping you safe during his absence."

"Go on."

"And then I asked him to clarify what happened in that tunnel this morning," the lieutenant told him.

"And did he?"

"Well, not really. He claimed that Detective Pezzini did most of the damage."

A faint smile touched the older man's chiseled lips, but didn't come close to reaching those glacial eyes. "Do you believe him, Lieutenant?"

Graham nodded. "Much as I hate to admit it, yes, I do, which means she must have had seriously kick-ass combat training, much like Nottingham is rumored to have had." He hesitated. "But I've discovered that I don't have any clear memory of how I was overpowered, and neither do any of my men. In a few cases, this memory loss can be attributed to concussion, but according to the doctors who examined me, not in my particular case."

Frustratingly, Irons chose not to comment on this. Instead, he said, "Did Nottingham say anything else to you?"

"Yes. He threatened to kill me and every single one of my men if we ever attempted to harm Detective Pezzini again," Graham informed him. "And I believe he meant it."

"Oh, you can rest assured that he did, Lieutenant," Irons agreed, that smug little smile reappearing. "Tell me, what did Ian say that caused you such amusement? Ian is many things, but in my experience, a comedian is not one of them."

Again, Graham hesitated. "Uh, well, right after he threatened me, he started acting a little, uh, weird."

"Describe 'weird.'"

The younger man shrugged uneasily. "His whole attitude suddenly changed from intimidating to, um, to almost . . . flirtatious," Hopkins said with obvious reluctance. "Except that I got the distinct impression that it wasn't directed at me," he added quickly at Irons' raised eyebrows.

"Was someone else there?"

_Since you were watching, you know there wasn't,_ Graham thought, but said, "Uh, no. We were alone. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I got the strangest feeling he was talking to someone I couldn't see, except that he wasn't speaking out loud either." He shrugged again. "I told you it was gonna sound crazy."

"Yes, that does sound rather odd. But you still haven't told me precisely what Ian said that you found so amusing," he reiterated.

"Oh, yeah. That. Well, the weirdness went on for several minutes and he seemed kind of distracted, so I thought I'd see what happened if I tried to leave. You know, to give him a little privacy," Graham said, clearing his throat self-consciously. Encouraged by the enigmatic billionaire's keenly interested expression, he continued. "That seemed to snap him out of it, but then he says, 'If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins, I'm going to my quarters to masturbate.'"

Irons' eyebrows shot up in patent disbelief.

"I swear to God!" Graham swore. "Then he got all red in the face, and said, 'Meditate. I'm going to my quarters to meditate, and then I'm retiring for the night, so your surveillance duties are finished for tonight.' And then he left. I thought it was damn funny, so I laughed. But I waited until after he left before busting a gut, of course."

"Of course," Kenneth agreed archly. "Well, that is certainly an interesting anecdote, Lieutenant Hopkins. It seems Ian may have developed a sense of humor after -- !!!" Abruptly, the older man's words broke off and he stiffened, pale blue eyes widening.

Graham tensed and glanced behind him, fully expecting to see Ian Nottingham, but no one was there. He turned back to Irons and noticed that the man's face was flushed and that he'd begun perspiring and squirming around in his chair as though in pain.

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked, alarmed by the sudden change in his condition.

"You . . . are . . . dismissed, Lieutenant," Irons got out through gritted teeth.

"I'm calling for a medic, Mr. Irons," Graham decided, reaching for the phone. "You don't look so good!"

"No!" Kenneth hissed, slamming a hand down on the phone. "Just . . . get . . . out!"

"If you're sure," the lieutenant said doubtfully, slowly backing way. "Good night, sir."

The billionaire didn't respond, just gripped the carved wooden arms of his chair and moaned softly.

_And I thought Nottingham was acting weird!_ Shaking his head, Lieutenant Graham Hopkins headed for the infirmary to check in on his men who were still hospitalized.

* * *

A moue of distaste twisting his lips, Kenneth Irons plucked at the front of his grey flannel trousers. A damp spot stood out on the fine, Italian wool fabric like a red flag of shame. Although the tortuous edge was off his too-long-denied desire, he still felt wholly unsatisfied and more than a little humiliated at having been forced to resort to self-gratification. It was either that or be driven mad by the link to the Wielder and her ravenous libido. Add to this his simmering rage at the conversation he'd overheard between Ian and Dr. Immo, and he felt like killing someone with his bare hands. The revelation that Sara Pezzini might be carrying Ian's child had been only slightly less shocking than the discovery that they'd formed a strong telepathic bond. And based on what Lieutenant Hopkins had just told him and the evidence mutely staring up at him from his crotch, there was also an empathic connection between the Wielder and her Protector. _Just great_.

Getting to his feet, he slunk off to the bedroom he'd chosen for the night, praying that he wouldn't see anyone along the way, because although his suit jacket thankfully hid the damning evidence of his weakness, he seriously doubted his ability to speak civilly to anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path. Luckily, he saw no one. Even more fortunate was the fact that he was in the shower when Sara and Ian chose to indulge in another round of psychic lovemaking. Gnashing his teeth, he silently raged at both of them even as his traitorous flesh responded to the Wielder's apparently bottomless passion. Shamefully, he gave in and pleasured himself again. Afterwards, his movements jerky with anger, he toweled himself off and donned a pair of silk pajamas. Too agitated to even think about trying to fall asleep, he attempted to read a book, but was unable to concentrate as his stomach began rumbling insistently, reminding him that he'd missed the evening meal. He started to ring for his valet, but recalled that he'd given the man the week off for the upcoming holiday and that his replacement had been inconveniently stranded out of state by the storm. Still wary of inflicting his foul mood on an unsuspecting staffer, Kenneth decided to go in search of sustenance himself. Throwing on a robe, he stalked through the deserted halls of the estate.

As he made his way down the ground-floor corridor that led to the enormous, state-of-the-art kitchen, Kenneth noted that the lights were on, perhaps signifying that Mrs. MacFadden, the estate's longtime cook and head housekeeper, was still up, meaning he would not be reduced to fending for himself after all. _Hmmm, perhaps things are looking up, _he thought sardonically, then froze in the doorway as he discovered the last person on earth he wanted to see standing contemplatively in front of the open refrigerator. But before he could turn on his heel and leave, Ian Nottingham glanced over his shoulder and spotted him.

"Good evening, father," his son greeted him jovially. "After a late-night snack, too, are you?"

Glowering at him, Kenneth moved further into the room. "Yes. Recent . . . events seem to have been piqued my appetite," he said acerbically.

The wretched whelp actually had the nerve to smile cheekily at him. "Mine, too. I feel like I could eat the proverbial horse. Ah, this must be your plate." He removed a tin-foil-wrapped dinner plate from the refrigerator, and uncovered it. "Mmmm. Rosemary lamb chops, roasted red-jacket potatoes, and string beans almondine. Shall I reheat it for you, father?"

"Yes, thank you," Kenneth muttered sullenly.

Just then, Graham Hopkins strolled into the room. A look of dismay crossed his clean-shaven features when he saw Kenneth Irons standing there, but he recovered quickly and nodded to the two men deferentially. "Mr. Irons. Nottingham. I thought you were retiring for the night, Mr. Nottingham," he said to Ian, noting with some amusement that the two men were almost identically clad in black silk pajamas and navy-blue velour robes.

"I fully intended to, Lieutenant Hopkins, but I have discovered that . . . meditating stimulates my appetite," Ian said, completely straight-faced. "Would you perhaps care to join us for a snack?"

"Don't mind if I do," Graham replied. "If that's all right with you, sir?" he added quickly, glancing at Kenneth Irons.

The billionaire made an expansive gesture. "By all means, Lieutenant." He arched a eyebrow at his acting head of security. "I don't suppose you, too, were . . . meditating?"

"Um, unfortunately, no. Up until just a few minutes ago, I was checking in on my men who are still confined to the infirmary. By the way, one of them took a slight turn for the worse after encountering you there earlier this evening, Nottingham. Apparently, mixing a mild concussion and the after-effects of a taser shock with a sudden jolt of adrenaline can cause a nasty reaction. But he's feeling much better now that the sedative has kicked in," Graham said, taking a seat on one of the barstools that lined two sides of the enormous, granite-topped kitchen island.

"Regrettable," Ian murmured, sliding his father's plate into the microwave oven and pushing a button. He began pulling Tupperware containers out of the refrigerator and setting them on the countertop. "What would you like to eat, Lieutenant?"

"What've you got?"

"Leftovers from tonight's dinner, featuring lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and string beans," Ian told him, putting out two more plates, three cloth napkins, and three sets of silverware.

"Sounds great."

Just then, a diminutive grey-haired woman clad in a colorful housedress and a loosely belted fuchsia chenille bathrobe entered the kitchen. "I thought I heard voices in here!" she exclaimed, a Scottish burr easily detectible in her voice. She stopped short as she caught sight of Ian Nottingham, round blue eyes widening with delight behind her bifocals. "Oh, the rumors are true then! You've come back to us, Master Ian!" she gasped. "Welcome home, lad!"

A wide grin appeared on Nottingham's handsome face. "Hello, Cookie," he said, using his boyhood name for her. "I missed you, too."

"Why didn't you ring me if you wanted a snack? I would have gladly fixed something for you!" she chastised him.

"I did not want to bother you this late at night," Ian told her. "Cookie, you would be so proud of me: While I was away, I made omelets. Twice! And they came out great both times!" he boasted.

"You don't say! You were just a wee bairn when I taught you how to prepare them. I didna think you'd remember how after all these years!"

"I also learned how to make three kinds of pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon," he informed her. "Although my pancakes were not exactly perfect at first, I eventually got the hang of it, and even the misshapen, slightly under- or overcooked ones tasted pretty good I was told."

"Och! Flapjacks aren't easy ta get right at the best o' times, so good for you, laddie, good for you!" she beamed up at him, patting his arm affectionately. "Mayhap you'll demonstrate your technique for your old Cookie one of these days, eh?"

"I would be delighted to," Ian said, grinning down at her.

Kenneth cleared his throat. "Touching as this reunion has been, having missed the evening meal, I'm very hungry." he said sourly.

"Oh, yes, yes," Mrs. MacFadden said, apparently taking notice of her employer for the first time. "Of course you are, Mr. Irons. My apologies, sir."

The microwave beeped, and she shooed Ian out of the way with a flap of her hands before opening it. Removing the plate with the aid of a potholder, she eyed her employer, who was leaning indolently against the countertop. "Will you be dining in here, sir, or would you like me to put out a place setting in the dining room?" she asked him diffidently.

"I may as well eat in here," Kenneth replied. Embarrassingly, his stomach growled loudly as the enticing aroma of the food reached his nostrils.

"Very good, sir. However, I must warn you the lamb is bound to be quite a bit drier than it was the first time I served it to you," Mrs. MacFadden sniffed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, just give me the damn food, woman!" Kenneth growled, taking a seat next to Graham Hopkins. He rolled his eyes as she took her sweet time adding a dollop of mint sauce to his plate before sliding it across the island countertop to him.

"Will the gentleman be havin' the same thing then?" she asked a highly amused Graham Hopkins, completely ignoring Irons' loutishness.

"Yes, thank you, Ma'am!" he said, giving her a jaunty salute.

"Very good. Sit down, Master Ian," Mrs. MacFadden bade Ian, who took a seat at the end of the counter nearest Graham. "It'll just take a few minutes for your food to heat up. Now, what will ye be havin' to drink?" As she spoke, she quickly and efficiently filled a Tupperware container with two generous portions of food.

"I'll have a glass of red wine," Kenneth requested without looking up from his plate as he cut a piece of the mouth-wateringly tender lamb and slathered it in mint sauce.

"Got any beer?" Graham asked.

"Domestic or imported?" Mrs. MacFadden queried, sliding the food into the microwave and pressing a button. She poured three glasses of ice water, and slid them across the countertop.

"Hmmm. A Guinness Stout would be great if you have it," he replied.

Mrs. MacFadden beamed at him. "An excellent choice. And you, lad?" she addressed Ian.

"I will have a Guinness Stout, too, thank you," Ian said, ignoring the disapproving frown his father gave him.

"Before you go complaining about the fact that you never drink stout so why do we have it on hand, Mr. Irons, allow me to inform you that it's from Mr. MacFadden's own private stock," Mrs. MacFadden said tartly, correctly interpreting the disgruntled look on her employer's face.

"It's good to know you think so highly of me, Mrs. MacFadden," Kenneth bit out irritably. "But at the risk of sounding petty, let me hasten to assure you that I'll replace whatever Ian and Lieutenant Hopkins drink."

"Completely unnecessary," she retorted blithely, "but thank you for the offer. Gentlemen, please excuse me while I go fetch the wine and the stout. I won't be a minute!" She swept out of the room.

"Good old Cookie!" Ian said happily into the awkward silence she left in her wake. "Although I was fortunate enough to have two excellent cooks as my hosts for the past few days, I missed her cooking."

"So, _are_ the chops dry, sir?" Graham asked his employer blandly.

His only reply was a dark look. "Who _did_ you stay with in your absence, Ian?" Kenneth asked his son pointedly after swallowing a mouthful of the delicious food.

"Robert and Paula Siri," he replied. "Sara's surrogate older brother and sister-in-law. They live in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn."

"Pray tell, what sort of undoubtedly pedestrian fare did they serve you?" Kenneth asked snidely in a blatant effort to destroy the younger man's disgustingly good mood.

"Although admittedly not gourmet fare -- much like the meal you are giving every indication of enjoying right this very moment, I might add -- everything they so generously shared with me was quite delicious," Ian coolly rebuked him. "Paula made London Broil the first night I dined with her family, accompanied by a tossed salad, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and mixed vegetables. I believe I mentioned the pancake breakfast that I helped prepare alongside Sara's nephew, Joseph Siri, Jr., which I tremendously enjoyed doing. For lunch that day, Paula made homemade chicken salad sandwiches --"

"Oh, I love a good chicken salad!" Graham interjected enthusiastically. "With celery and a little bit of chopped onion. Mmmm."

"It was indeed excellent," Ian confirmed. "For dinner that evening, Robert Siri made Lasagna Bolognese, which Sara claims is better than his mother's, although she swore me to secrecy about that fact. It was superb, although, of course, I cannot vouch for its superiority having never sampled Marie Siri's lasagna. However, I can attest to the fact that Marie -- who, by the way, is also Sara's godmother," he explained for Graham's benefit, "is a phenomenal cook in her own right. She is a native of Italy, and last week she prepared several authentic southern Italian dishes for her family at her home, which is also located in Bay Ridge. Not far from her son's house, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, man, you're killing me over here, Nottingham," Graham groaned. "Italian food is my favorite, especially the real deal, which is next to impossible to find in these parts." He either didn't notice or chose to ignore the oppressive look Kenneth Irons leveled at him.

"Unfortunately, owing to my ill health at the time," Ian continued, "I was only able to eat her Millecosedde vegetable soup, which was outstanding. But I hope to be able to enjoy her culinary expertise at Thanksgiving. She has invited us to join her and her family for the holiday meal," he informed his father.

"Us?" Kenneth queried in surprise, a forkful of food poised in midair.

"Yes. She told me I am welcome to bring a guest."

Just then, Mrs. MacFadden came bustling back into the kitchen carrying a six-pack of Guinness Stout and a bottle of red wine. Seconds later, the microwave beeped.

"Perfect timing!" she said, setting the wine bottle and stout on the countertop.

"Here, let me open that for you, Ma'am," Graham offered, leaning across the counter to snag the wine bottle.

"Why thank you, Lieutenant," she said gratefully, handing him a corkscrew that had a bottle opener on the other end, along with a wineglass, a bottle of stout, and another glass. She passed Ian his own bottle of Guinness and a glass.

Deftly, Graham opened the wine and poured a glass for his employer before opening his stout and then Nottingham's. Idly, he wondered if he could finagle his way into accompanying Irons to this Marie Siri's house for Thanksgiving. If in the next couple of days Nottingham took off again to be with his girlfriend, his employer would need a bodyguard for the trip to Brooklyn, right? However, his hopes on that front were immediately dashed.

"Ian, you know very well that I've had finite plans for Thanksgiving for months," Kenneth Irons said, frowning. "Plans, I might add, that include you."

"My plans have changed, father," Ian said with a lot more bravado than he actually felt. "I intend to have Thanksgiving dinner with Sara and her family." Defiantly, he lifted his glass of Guinness Stout and took a sip.

Kenneth glared at him, infuriated by his insolence. He was on the point of uttering a scathing reply, when he remembered that they had company. A glance at the avidly interested faces of his housekeeper and acting head of security forced him to rein in his temper.

Lieutenant Hopkins cleared his throat, drawing Ian's gaze to him. He frowned in noncomprehension as the younger man made an odd gesture with his right index finger beneath his swollen, bandaged nose.

"That's a bonnie foam mustache yer sportin', laddie," Mrs. MacFadden chuckled, holding up a shiny pot lid so that Ian could see his reflection.

"Oh," Ian said, coloring. He hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin. "It seems there is a knack to pouring stout that I was unaware of," he murmured, eyeing Lieutenant Hopkins' glass, which had a fraction of the foam his did.

"A first-timer, hunh? You gotta tilt the glass while you pour," Graham offered helpfully. "'Tilt and pour, then drink some more!'" he rhymed, grinning and taking a healthy draught of the dark-brown liquid. "It's damn good, isn't it?"

"Yes," Ian agreed, taking another drink and savoring the roasted malt flavor. "Foam mustache notwithstanding, I think I can get used to this."

Abruptly, the lieutenant became aware of the fact that Kenneth Irons was glaring daggers at him. "Always drink in moderation, son," Graham said sternly to Nottingham. "Take me, for instance. I never drink beer while I'm on duty -- which, by the way, technically, I'm not. And I would never drink an entire six-pack by myself. That would be wrong."

"Well, then," Ian smiled devilishly, "it is a very good thing there are two of us drinking!"

"I'll drink to that!" Graham agreed, promptly holding his glass up to Ian.

Grinning conspiratorially at each other, they clinked glasses. In that very moment, a friendship was born.

"I'm thinking it's a very good thing you lads won't be drinking on an empty stomach," Mrs. MacFadden observed wryly, sliding plates of steaming food across the countertop to them. "Dig in!"

More to come. I'd like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to those of you who took time out of your busy days to leave feedback for me. I read every single one with delight and, as always, crave more. Thanks for the gentle nagging, Nanz. I really appreciate it. What can I say? A few chapters ago, I thought I was winding up this, my inaugural fanfic, but, apparently, even the best-laid plans go awry! Keep leaving feedback, and I'll keep writing. After all, Thanksgiving is right around the corner, LOL! dragongrrl

18


	67. Chapter 68

A Family Affair

Author's Note: First of all Happy 2005, everybody! I hope the Not-So-New Year is treating everyone well so far. Once again, I must apologize to you, my faithful readers, for the horribly long delay between posting chapters of this epic. The almost apocalyptic nature of "Real Life" (the horrific tsunami, another four years of Bush, etc., etc.) lately has made it difficult for me to find the time and, more importantly, the inspiration to continue working on this labor of love. My muses went on an extended hiatus, and have only recently been coaxed back to work, thanks to the many encouraging/entreating emails (thanks, Nanz!) and feedback posts that I've received over the past few weeks. So, without further ado, here's Chapter 68. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Same as the other chapters.

Chapter 68.

_Then can I walk beside you  
I have come here to lose the smog  
And I feel to be a cog in something turning  
Well maybe it is just the time of year  
Or maybe it's the time of man  
I don't know who I am  
But life is for learning  
_

From "Woodstock" by Joni Mitchell

As a young child, Ian had learned not to speak unless spoken to when in his father's presence. Kenneth Irons detested idle chatter. He rarely spoke during meals unless he had something he deemed important enough to discuss, the end result being that, more often than not, a sepulchral silence prevailed over the dining room. However, having spent the past few days with the voluble Siri family, Ian had come to the conclusion that not only was engaging in discussion at the dining table perfectly acceptable behavior, it was extremely enjoyable as well. Everybody had gone out of their way to include him in the often-spirited debates, even though it had been painfully obvious that he was unaccustomed to speaking his mind.

Much to Ian's secret delight, it soon became clear that Lieutenant Graham Hopkins had no such reservations. Oblivious to his employer's reticence and barely concealed annoyance, he engaged Ian and Mrs. MacFadden in a steady stream of conversation in between bites of the delicious food, which was liberally washed down with the excellent dark-brown beer.

"So, you cooked for your girlfriend, eh, Nottingham?" the lieutenant posited, eyeing the other man over his glass.

Kenneth Irons choked on the mouthful of food he'd just swallowed, prompting Mrs. MacFadden to thump him on the back until he waved her off with an irritable, "I'm fine, I'm fine!"

"Yes," Ian confirmed once his father's brief coughing fit had passed. "I prepared Western omelets for her." '_My girlfriend!_' he thought to himself. _I really like the sound of that!_

"Big tactical mistake there, if you ask me," Graham opined, shaking his head.

Ian bit. "How so?"

"Well, for one thing, from now on, she's gonna expect you to share the cooking duties."

"I think it is only fair that I do my share of the cooking and cleaning once we move in together," Ian shrugged, whereupon his father began choking again, having been caught in mid-sip this time. "However, since Sara has confessed that she is not much of a cook, I will probably end up preparing most of our meals, which means I will eventually have to broaden my repertoire. As things stand, I only know how to cook breakfast food."

Graham Hopkins stared at him, an expression akin to horror on his face. "That's crazy talk!" he finally sputtered. "What are you trying to do, Nottingham? Ruin things for the rest of us guys?"

Ian frowned in puzzlement. "I am not entirely sure what you mean by that, Lieutenant," he said truthfully.

"Pay him no mind, Master Ian!" advised Mrs. MacFadden, who was once again energetically thumping a coughing, red-faced Kenneth Irons on the back. "I'd be more than happy to teach you how to fix a variety of quick, delicious, and nutritious meals for you and yer lady."

"Thank you, Cookie," Ian smiled gratefully at her. "I will definitely take you up on your extremely generous offer. In fact, I have discovered that I enjoy cooking for Sara."

"Do stop assaulting me, Mrs. MacFadden!" Kenneth rasped as soon as he could draw a breath. "Really, I'm fine!"

Unaware of the fact that Ian could hear his every word, Graham was shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath. "Madness! Next thing you know, he'll willingly give up custody of his 'nads." He snorted derisively. "Who am I kidding? It's already too late! He's been pussy-whipped. Big time!" In a much louder voice, he said, "Just let me ask you this, Nottingham: Have you ever actually done any housecleaning?"

"No," Ian was forced to admit, "I have not. But the prospect of one day having to do so does not fill me with dread. To be perfectly frank, I find the idea of expecting the woman to do all of the cooking and cleaning to be rather antiquated." _Hmmm. I'll have to remember to ask Gabriel what "pussy-whipped" means._

"Good for you, laddie!" Mrs. MacFadden smiled approvingly at Ian. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen . . . " she waited a beat and then added pointedly, "Lieutenant," before sweeping out of the kitchen.

"Hey, I'm no caveman," Graham defended himself, raising his voice so the departing housekeeper could hear him. "I'm just your average heterosexual male who doesn't know his way around the kitchen and likes it that way. That's what takeout was invented for, you know? Plus, I learned the hard way that what I think is clean and what the female of the species thinks is clean are two entirely different things. According to my ex, my housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired - and she isn't even a neat freak!"

"Well, having only spent a few days cohabitating with Sara, I cannot say for certain whether our standards of cleanliness are, in fact, comparable. However, from what I _have_ observed of her housekeeping habits, I can safely say she, too, is not a 'neat freak,'" Ian offered. "Far from it, in fact. And although I will admit that I prefer my living quarters to be kept in some semblance of order, I do not consider myself to be obsessively neat, which perhaps bodes well for peaceful coexistence - at least in that one regard."

"For your sake, I truly hope you're right," Graham murmured. He raised his glass. "Here's to harmonious cohabitation!"

"I will drink to that," Ian seconded.

They clinked glasses, and then the lieutenant promptly drained his.

Ian immediately followed suit, conscientiously seeking to keep pace with the other man's slow but steady rate of stout consumption. Whenever one of the dark-brown glass bottles became empty, Ian carefully lined it up in front of him and then darted a glance at his father to gauge his reaction to this tiny act of rebellion. Unfortunately, soon after he started doing this, Mrs. MacFadden came bustling back into the kitchen and cleared away the empties before his collection had a chance to become suitably impressive and/or antagonistic. However, he gained a considerable measure of consolation from the fact that she brought with her another six-pack of Guinness Stout, prompting Graham to proclaim, "Ah! You're a good woman, Mrs. MacFadden. I hope your husband, God bless his stout-loving soul, realizes what a gem he has for a wife."

"Och, to be sure he gets down on his knees every night and gives thanks to the good Lord for his enormous good fortune in marrying me!" Mrs. MacFadden promptly assured him with a grin.

"And well he should," Graham winked at her, "and well he should. Be sure and thank him on my behalf for his largesse."

"And on mine as well!" Ian chimed in.

"That I will, lads."

Graham raised his glass, which was once again full. "To Mr. MacFadden!"

"To Mr. MacFadden and his excellent taste in wives and, more importantly, beer!" Ian heartily agreed, clinking glasses with him.

"Hmph!" Kenneth Irons opined sourly, setting his wineglass down on the polished granite countertop with a sharp click.

Meg "Cookie" MacFadden was pleased to see that her employer had eaten very well. He'd even requested a second helping of food, although she suspected it was because he wanted to keep an eye on the younger men rather than because he was still hungry. Mr. Irons had barely eaten a thing in days, and she'd begun to seriously worry about his health, especially after rumors started flying that he'd been admitted to the infirmary in very bad shape. Because he'd closeted himself in his bedroom, none of the staff - herself included - had caught more than a brief glimpse of the enigmatic billionaire over the past few days, but Meg had been highly aware of the fact that his meals had come back practically untouched. She didn't think it was any coincidence that he'd gone off his feed following Master Ian's mysterious disappearance, nor that his appetite had returned now that the lad had come home. Before he himself had ended up in the infirmary following the Russians' terrifying siege, Stephen Immo had confided in Meg that he was worried about their employer's failing health.

One of the reasons for her long tenure as head cook and housekeeper of Irons' Westchester estate was the well-known fact that Meg MacFadden was the soul of discretion. Over the years, she'd witnessed some mighty strange things in this mansion, but with the sole exception of her husband, she'd never breathed a word about any of it to anyone. Gossipmongers didn't last long in Kenneth Irons' employ. However, even Meg's curiosity had been piqued by the tumultuous events in recent days, beginning with the unexplained absence of Master Ian and ending with his sudden reappearance this evening. Oh, to be sure, he'd gone off on sudden trips before, sometimes for weeks on end, but this time had been different. Stephen had told her that after Master Ian had failed to return home last Thursday night, Mr. Irons had begun drinking heavily - something he rarely did - which had exacerbated his already fragile health. Shortly afterwards, he'd taken to his quarters, where he had remained until late last night, when he'd been transferred to the infirmary, purportedly near death. Then, early this morning, Master Ian had allegedly shown up here with Detective Sara Pezzini, and all hell had broken loose.

Ever since then, the household had been abuzz with speculation about the nature of Master Ian's relationship with the beautiful homicide detective. Meg had had the opportunity to meet Sara Pezzini just once before, when the detective had accepted an invitation to dine with Mr. Irons at the estate. Even though her interaction with the younger woman had been limited to a scant few minutes, it had been obvious to Meg that Mr. Irons was highly interested in the lovely detective - and just as obvious that the feeling wasn't mutual. Evidently, Detective Pezzini's rejection of him had made her all the more alluring, especially to someone who was accustomed to women practically falling all over themselves to first attract and then keep his attention. However, nothing Kenneth Irons did appeared to have any effect on this particular woman. She seemed to be immune to his considerable charm - not to mention the potent lure of his vast wealth. To add insult to injury, Sara Pezzini and Master Ian were now undeniably an item - something that Kenneth Irons patently did not approve of if their earlier disagreement over where to spend the upcoming holiday was anything to go by. Meg could hardly believe her ears when the younger man defiantly informed Mr. Irons that his Thanksgiving plans had changed. In the nearly 25 years she'd known him, Ian Nottingham had never once openly defied his father in this manner. She had watched the sweet, shy little boy grow up into an unfailingly polite, kind, and thoughtful young man who was totally dominated by his autocratic father. In fact, Meg was fairly certain that before now, Master Ian hadn't been romantically involved with anyone. Ever.

But evidently all that had changed. The fantastic story being bandied about was that Master Ian had run off with Detective Sara Pezzini, not to return until early that morning, when the two of them had paid a clandestine, unauthorized visit to Mr. Irons in the infirmary. Afterward, there had apparently been a violent altercation between the duo and the estate's security guards, who had unwisely attempted to prevent them from leaving. Lieutenant Hopkins' battered face bore mute testimony to the ferocity of the clash, but from what Meg could see, Master Ian did not have a mark on him. After handily defeating the hapless lieutenant and his men, he and his lady love had made good their escape.

However, it now seemed all was forgiven, for Master Ian had returned, and aside from their brief argument earlier, he appeared to be back in his father's good graces. Whatever the truth of the matter was, one thing was certain: Kenneth Irons had made a near-miraculous recovery, and was once again his eternally youthful self. In fact, he looked better than he had in quite some time, Meg decided after surreptitiously taking a good look at him. Moreover, she'd never seen Master Ian look happier or more relaxed. Meg was certain this had a lot to do with his new love interest. _Okay, maybe it also has a little to do with the Guinness Stout,_ she thought wryly. This was also a new development; she had never before seen Ian Nottingham imbibe anything other than the occasional glass of wine. _It'll do him good to loosen up a little, _Meg decided, pretending not to see Mr. Irons' disapproving frown when she brought out another six-pack of stout after the two lads finished the first one. She hid a smile when she noticed that her employer didn't object when she refilled his wineglass for the third time.

"Everything was great, Mrs. MacFadden," Lieutenant Hopkins complimented her, rubbing his belly contentedly. "Thank you for fixing me a plate."

"You're quite welcome, Lieutenant," she smiled at him, removing his empty plate. "I hope you left room for dessert, because there's homemade apple crumb pie."

"Hmmm." Graham pretended to think about this for a few seconds. "I think I could manage to eat a slice," he grinned, winking at her.

"Very good. I'll just give you some time to digest your meal before I serve the pie," Meg said, rinsing his plate before placing it in the dishwasher. "Would anyone else like pie?"

"I would," Ian accepted. "But if it is not too much bother, I would like mine heated up and with a scoop of vanilla ice cream."

"Now, that's what I'm talking about!" Graham nodded enthusiastically. "If it's not too much trouble, could you make mine à la mode, too, Mrs. MacFadden?"

"It'll be no trouble a'tall. What about you, Mr. Irons?"

"You may reheat mine, but I would prefer whipped cream instead of ice cream, thank you," Kenneth requested.

"Very good, sir."

"There's nothing like home cooking!" Graham murmured, still absentmindedly rubbing his stomach. He'd been delighted to discover that his swollen nasal passages hadn't entirely neutralized his sense of taste. He hadn't had a thing to eat since breakfast, which had been interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Ian Nottingham and Detective Sara Pezzini. Lunchtime had come and gone while he sat in the infirmary waiting to be checked out, and by the time dinnertime had rolled around, he hadn't felt much like eating. Despite the cotton packing it, his nose had stubbornly continued to bleed, and the coppery taste of his own blood had effectively destroyed his appetite. Eventually, the bleeding had stopped, but as luck would have it, just as Graham was sitting down to have a bite to eat in the mess hall, a panicky young maid had called security to say that she'd heard Kenneth Irons shouting when she had passed by his private study moments earlier. After hastily assembling a team of men from the already dangerously thin ranks, Graham had gone to investigate.

He still hadn't figured out how Nottingham had managed to gain access to estate again. After that morning's debacle, he'd personally seen to it that all of the security codes had been changed and that extra personnel had been assigned to patrol duty. Yet the assassin had still managed to get onto the grounds and then inside undetected. _I'll have to ask him how the heck he did that,_ Graham thought to himself. _But I doubt he'll tell me. Hmmm. Maybe the alcohol will loosen his tongue_. It was obvious to him that Nottingham was an inexperienced drinker. After just a few beers, the man was already showing signs of inebriation. It was also obvious to him that Nottingham's drinking was a blatant act of rebellion against his father's authority, and that this hadn't been lost on Kenneth Irons, who was none too pleased about it and didn't care who knew it. Normally, Graham would have bent over backwards to avoid getting caught in the middle of a familial power struggle - especially one that had all of the earmarks of a nasty and protracted battle like this one did - but when he'd discovered his employer in the kitchen along with the man whose movements he'd been tasked with monitoring, his curiosity about the extremely peculiar father/son dynamic had gotten the best of him, and he'd impulsively accepted Nottingham's invitation to dine with him and his father. Besides, Graham was famished, and he figured he might as well get a decent meal out of the deal.

Midway through his third bottle of stout, Ian noticed that his coordination was swiftly becoming impaired. First, he dropped his fork on the floor, and when he bent down to pick it up, he discovered that his limbs felt curiously heavy and that his fingers clumsily refused to follow his brain's commands. It took him a couple of tries to pick up the utensil, and when he sat back up, he promptly knocked over his glass of water. What's more, he'd suddenly developed an embarrassing habit of belching loudly and uncontrollably. The first time it happened, he flushed to his roots in mortification and apologized profusely. But after the fourth or fifth time, he simply followed Lieutenant Hopkins' lead, and nonchalantly muffled the explosive sound with one hand.

"I had homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert while I was away," Ian commented, belatedly harkening back to the last thing the lieutenant had said. "I had not had them in years — not since I was in the army, in fact."

"How long were you in the army?" Graham asked him, opening the bottle of stout that had magically appeared in front of him. Nottingham also opened another one, but only after fumbling with the bottle opener for what seemed like an eternity.

"Four years," Ian replied, frowning at the recalcitrant bottle cap. He refilled his glass with exaggerated care and then met Lieutenant Hopkins' distinctly amused gaze. "One of the members of my unit occasionally received care packages from home, and he was kind enough to share his homemade chocolate chip cookies with the rest of us. Even slightly stale, they were delicious. That was nearly a decade ago, but I clearly remember how much all of us enjoyed eating them."

"You were in Special Ops, weren't you?"

"Yes. My unit was called the Black Dragons," Ian told him, noticing that he was starting to have difficulty enunciating certain words.

"Yeah, word was the Dragons were a bunch of bad-ass mother, um, dudes," Graham murmured, glancing apologetically at Mrs. MacFadden, who was dishing out pie nearby. "Did you see any action?"

"Yes, in -"

"The Black Dragons' missions are still highly classified, Lieutenant," Kenneth Irons cut in smoothly. "I'm sure you understand."

"Still classified, hunh?" Graham feigned surprise. "Yeah, yeah, sure, I understand."

"What about yourshelf, uh, yourself, Lieutenant?" Ian queried, although he already knew the answer, having read the lieutenant's file. "Did you see combat during your days with the Sheals, um, Seals?"

"Yeah, I did. In Kosovo and Afghanistan."

(_Ian?_)

Ian started as Sara's telepathic "voice" abruptly sounded inside his head.

(_Yes, my love?_)

(_Just checking in. Whatcha doing?_)

Ian realized that both Kenneth Irons and Lieutenant Hopkins were watching him curiously, having apparently noticed his involuntary flinch. "Excuse me," he muttered, standing. "I will be right back." The room tilted crazily for several seconds, forcing him to put out a hand to steady himself. Once he had regained a reasonable facsimile of his equilibrium, he headed to a nearby bathroom.

(_I'm having a belated dinner,_) Ian sent once he'd closed the bathroom door behind him. (_After our earlier, um, activities, I dishcovered I was ravenous, so I came down to the kitchen in search of shushstenance._) _Hmmm. Even_ _my telepathic speech is becoming slurred,_ he thought to himself. _Maybe she won't notice._

There was a slight pause. (_Ian, have you been drinking?_) Sara asked incredulously.

(_Jus' some Guinnesh Stout, thash all,_) he informed her, shrugging self-consciously.

(_Well, I hate to break it to you, but you, my friend, are drunk,_) she said, amusement coloring her "tone." (_How much have you had?_)

(_Not quite three bottles,_) Ian admitted sheepishly.

(_Lightweight!_) Sara teased him. (_I sensed something odd was happening with you, but never in a million years would I have guessed you were drunk,_) she laughed, but then abruptly became serious again. (_I know you miss me, baby, but resorting to alcohol is never the answer. I hate the thought of you drinking alone._)

(_Ah, but I'm not drinkin' alone!_) he proudly announced. (_Lieutenant Graham is drinkin' with me! In fac', it was hish idea._)

(_Is that so? Well, tell "Lieutenant Graham" that I said to quit corrupting you! Geez, first Gabriel gets you stoned, and now this!_) Sara huffed.

There was a pregnant pause. (_How did you find out about that?_) Ian queried guiltily.

(_I smelled it on your clothing. Aren't you taking your newfound independence a little too far, Ian? First, you smoke pot, and now you're drinking beer! What are you gonna do next? Grow long hair and a beard? Oh, wait . . ._)

(_I dint shmoke any pot. Gabriel an' his girlfren' Chloe did. I only got a contact high,_) Ian informed her.

(_"Only" a contact high, hunh? Do you even hear yourself, Nottingham? I don't suppose Lieutenant Hopkins warned you about the downside of drinking, did he?_)

(_There's a downside?_)

(_Um, yeah! There always is when you have too much of a good thing. It's called a hangover. Surely, you've heard of them?_)

(_Yes, but I was under th' impresshun that only hard liquor, like whishkey or tequila, could give you one._) He chuckled. (_Liquor. Lick. Her. Thash funny, innit?_)

(_Drunk is drunk, Cowboy. Remember how bad you felt after crashing from your high earlier today?_)

(_Um, yeah?_)

(_Now double, no, triple that, and you'll have some idea of how you'll feel tomorrow if you keep on drinking. I speak from experience when I tell you that a really nasty hangover can make you pray for death,_) Sara cautioned him.

There was another pause. (_I think you're jus' tryin' to scare me,_) Ian said uncertainly. He was having trouble aiming at the toilet bowl, which seemed a lot smaller than usual.

(_Fine. Go right ahead and keep on drinking. Just don't come crying to me about how shitty you feel tomorrow when you wake up._)

(_Perhaps you're right,_) Ian reluctantly conceded. (_It won't do for me to be hung over, 'speshally since I'm having breakfish with my father. I'll definly need to have my wits about me when dealin' with him. It's jus' that I can tell my drinking is really, really irritating him, and thash givin' me a ton of satishfaction._)

(_Wait a sec, Kenny's there with you!_)

(_Yes. I guessh he was ravenish, too, after "meditating,"_) Ian confirmed, laughing. (_Guinnesh Stout is sooo dee-lishush, Sara! Are you sure a couple more will hangover me?_)

(_You mean give you a hangover, and, judging by how toasted you are after just a few bottles, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say, yeah, it will. Must be that tweaked physiology of yours._)

(_Hmmm. Could be. But I know one thing for sure: my fishy-ala-gee mishes you, Sara._)

(_I miss you, too, baby._)

Ian jumped as someone knocked on the bathroom door. "Hey, Nottingham, didja fall in?" Graham Hopkins called.

"Be right out, Lieutenant Graham!" Ian called. (_I mush go, my love. Shpeak to you again inna hour?_)

(_Um, I'm thinking you'll be sleeping it off by then, but sure._)

(_Bye!_)

(_Good-night, lover._)

Ian quickly washed his hands and then opened the door. Graham was leaning against the wall in the hallway.

"You okay? You were gone so long, your dad started trying to make small talk with me," he said.

"You are lying, Lieutenant Graham," Ian replied sternly, but then he smiled crookedly and poked the other man in the chest with an index finger. "My father never makes small talk!"

Graham grinned, shaking his head. "Okay, you got me. We just sat there in awkward silence. So, I got the hell outta there. Said I had to go take a leak. Turns out I really do gotta go, so 'scuse me." But he stopped short as he noticed the lowered toilet seat, slanting Ian a disbelieving look. "You put the toilet seat back down."

"Yesh, I did," Ian agreed, looking quizzically at the toilet. "Why?"

But the other man just shook his head again. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered beneath his breath, and stepped past Ian into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Ian wove his way back into the kitchen, where a piece of apple crumb pie à la mode awaited him. He attacked it with gusto.

"Mmmm! Thish is ex'lent, Cookie!" he told Mrs. MacFadden, savoring the contrast in flavors between the piping hot pie and cold, rapidly melting ice cream.

"Why thank you, Master Ian. It's one of me favorites, too!" she replied.

"And what do you know, it goes great with Guinnesh Stout, too!" he grinned, draining his glass. "Oh, look, time for 'nother bottle!"

"I think you've had enough to drink, Ian," Kenneth Irons said.

"I will decide when I have had enough, thank you very much," Ian retorted, plucking another bottle from the second six-pack.

"You're drunk, and I will not sit here and watch you make a fool of yourself!" Kenneth hissed.

"Then leave!" Ian made exaggerated shooing motions with his hands. "Go 'head. Nobody's forcin' you to shtay. Go on! G'night!"

Kenneth glowered furiously at him, but stayed put.

"How's the pie?" Graham queried, reentering the kitchen and retaking his seat.

"Dee-lish-shush!" Ian replied around a mouthful. "Annit goes great wif shtout!"

"Doesn't everything?" Grinning, Graham grabbed another bottle of stout for himself, deftly opening it and refilling his glass before tucking into his dessert.

"So, thish is what it feels like to be drunk," Ian mused. "'Snot so bad."

"This is your first time getting your drunk on?" Graham queried incredulously. "But you were in the army!"

Ian shook his head. "Never got drunk while I was in th'army." He leaned toward the younger man conspiratorially. "Th' Black Dragons were all work and no play. But, shhhh. 'S'top secret!"

"I see." Graham shot a quick glance at his employer, which confirmed his suspicion that Irons was livid with anger at his son's drunken confessions, but the opportunity to learn more about his predecessor was too good to pass up. "Is that where you learned how to use a sword? Earlier in the gym, I couldn't help but notice that you handle one like an expert."

"No. I was taught th' Way of th' Schword in Japan, years before I joined th'army."

"Oh, yeah? What other kinds of martial arts training did you have?"

Ian waved a dismissive hand. "Lots and lots. You know, if you're gonna be my replacement, Lieutenant Graham, there are shome things you really should know. Fr'instance: those angry Russians were jus' the tip of the iceshberg. Over the years, my father hash managed to make enemies of jus' 'bout every nashunality you can think of. Fortunately for you, not all of them have the wherewithal to launch shush a coordinated attack."

"Well, that's a relief," Graham said, noticing the way Kenneth Irons was gripping his fork, as though he'd like nothing better than to stab his son with it.

"Ian is exaggerating, Lieutenant," Kenneth gritted out. "But, as I'm sure you're well aware, one doesn't amass as much wealth and power as I have without stepping on some toes along the way. And although it is an unfortunate fact that I have enemies, attempts on my life are few and far between."

"Yeah, by my count, over the last six years, there have been four attempts on your life, including this latest bunch of Russians," Graham murmured. "But I'm willing to bet there were several attempts that never got publicized."

"Touché, Lieutenant Graham!" Ian grinned, raising his glass. "Your inshinks are commenduh-mahbull. Over that same period, I can verify that I foiled nearly a dozen asshasshination plots that the press never got wind of."

"So, that's, what, 15 or 16 assassination attempts in six years?" Graham calculated. "Lucky I have that hazard pay clause in my employment contract, hunh?"

Ian dropped his fork again. "I once killed one of my father's enemies with a fork," he remarked, after unsuccessfully trying to locate the wayward utensil, which Mrs. MacFadden kindly replaced.

Graham raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he murmured. "What, didn't you have any ammo left?"

Ian tried unsuccessfully to muffle a belch. "I was unarmed, so I was forced to improvise. It was one of those lil sheefood forks."

"Oh, yeah, I know the kind." Graham reached across the countertop and snagged another bottle of Guinness Stout. "I 'spose the guy had it coming."

"He hired three asshasshins to kill my father," Ian responded. "One actually shusheeded in wounding him before I could defeat her."

"A chick assassin? Was she a hot Asian babe, like that fierce Ziyi Zhang from _House of Flying Daggers_? Man, I wouldn't mind tussling with her, if you know what I mean."

Ian frowned. "No. She was German."

Graham nodded knowingly. "One of those icy Teutonic blondes, hunh? How'd you off her?"

"With my sword."

"Cool. Did you lop off her head?"

Ian squinted at the younger man. "You are rather morbid, you know that?"

Graham shook his head. "Am not. I'm just curious. It's not every day I get to talk shop with a professional assassin."

"Former professhunal asshasshin, if you please," Ian corrected him, after taking a long drink of stout.

"So, you're hanging up your sword?"

"Not . . . exactly."

"You're just not gonna be Mr. Irons' bodyguard anymore."

"Right."

"So, how did you meet Detective Pezzini?"

"We first met at th' Midtown Museum. I was guarding a collectshun of artifacts that my father had loaned to the museum for the Joan of Arc exhibit."

"Oh, yeah, I seem to remember hearing about that exhibit on the news after it was destroyed in an explosion," Graham said, taking a drink from his newly refilled glass. "So, instead of watching your father's stuff, you were checking out Ms. Pezzini, hunh?"

"Well, she is a work of art!" Ian grinned, oblivious to the fact that he had once again acquired a foam mustache.

Graham chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, have you got it bad!"

"If by 'it' you mean that I am deeply in love with her, you would be right," Ian admitted. "My schword is at her dishposal now."

Graham's lips quirked wryly. "Uh, yeah, I clued into that after you threatened to kill me and my men if we were ever foolish enough to try and harm her again."

"Rest assured that it was no idle threat," Ian murmured, abruptly sobering up. "But you do not strike me as a foolish man, Lieutenant."

The younger man, nodded. "Thanks. My momma would proudly tell you that she didn't raise no fool. Too bad the lovely detective is a bit of a klepto, though."

Ian frowned again. "A 'klepto'?"

"Yeah. Mr. Irons told me she stole something of his. A silver bracelet with a red stone, I think it was." Unconsciously, Graham's hand went to his brow, which all of a sudden had begun to throb again.

"My father was mistaken," Ian said firmly. "Although Sara does indeed wear a bracelet matching that description, she is Its rightful owner."

"Yeah," Graham said slowly, "I vaguely recall seeing it on her wrist in the tunnel this morning. In fact, that's the last clear memory I have of our, uh, confrontation."

"What Ian has neglected to mention is that the bracelet in question did, in fact, belong to me at one time," Kenneth interjected coolly. "However, owing to a set of rather unfortunate circumstances, Detective Pezzini came to be in possession of it. Thus far, I have been unsuccessful in persuading her to return it to me."

"Well, possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?" Graham murmured, noticing the way father and son were staring each other down. "Besides, pardon me for saying so, but it seems like an awful lot of fuss over a tacky piece of jewelry." He flinched as the pain in his head abruptly sharpened. "Sonofabitch!" he swore, pressing his fingers to his temples.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Meg MacFadden asked worriedly, noticing his discomfort.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Graham muttered as the pain disappeared as quickly as it had reappeared. Suddenly he realized that the pain in his head had occurred when he'd begun thinking about the exact same subject as the first time it had afflicted him: Detective Sara Pezzini and their battle earlier that day. Somehow, he didn't think this was a coincidence.

"He should be told, father," Ian said quietly.

"Yes, but now is neither the time nor the place," Kenneth said. "Lieutenant Hopkins, please report to the library tomorrow morning at 0900:00 hours. There is something of import you need to know if you are to become my head of security."

Mightily intrigued, Graham nodded. "I'll be there, sir."

"Very good." Kenneth stood. "Thank you for reheating dinner for me, Mrs. MacFadden, and for dessert as well. Everything was superb, as usual."

"Thank you, and you're quite welcome, sir," Meg replied. "Good night, then."

"Good night." Kenneth paused, eyeing the two remaining bottles of Guinness Stout. "I trust you'll be retiring soon as well, gentlemen?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Graham replied, saluting him smartly. "We'll be right behind you."

"Yes, as soon as we take care of some unfinished business," Ian smirked, carefully opening another bottle of stout. "G'night, father. See you at breakfish!"

Kenneth pursed his lips in tacit disapproval, but simply turned and left the room.

"Not smart to provoke your old man like that, Nottingham," Graham murmured, opening his own bottle.

Ian shrugged. "I am beyond caring at this point."

"Well, you're a braver man than me, that's for sure. Or maybe just a drunker one." Graham raised his glass. "To false courage!"

"Hear, hear!"

They clinked glasses and then concentrated on emptying them.

"Well, that was wunnerful, but I am done drinkin'," Ian declared a few minutes later, getting to his feet. "Thank you for th' meal and th' pie, Cookie. It was very yummy."

"You're welcome, my dear boy," Meg replied, patting his arm affectionately. "Sleep well."

"Oh, I think that's a given," Graham smiled, hopping off his barstool. "Thanks again, Ma'am."

"Any time, Lieutenant. Good night, lads."

"Good night, Mrs. M."

"G'night, Cookie. See you at breakfish."

Followed closely by Graham, Ian rather unsteadily made his way down the corridor to the main staircase, where he paused and squinted up at the suddenly daunting flight of stairs.

"You gonna be okay making it to your quarters, Nottingham?" Graham asked him

"I think so," Ian murmured. "See you tomorrow morning in the library, Lieutenant Graham."

Graham chuckled. "A fan of _Forrest Gump_, hunh?"

"Who?"

"You know, _Forrest Gump_. The movie. Lieutenant Dan." A blank, bleary-eyed stare was Graham's only response. "Never mind. Good night, Nottingham."

"G'night." Ian slowly began trudging up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. When he finally reached his private quarters, his bed never looked so inviting. But before he fell into it, he opened the top drawer of his dresser and took out the t-shirt he'd removed from the hamper in Sara's bathroom and then secreted on his person before leaving her apartment earlier that day. He brought the garment to his nose and inhaled deeply of her marvelous scent. Shrugging out of his robe, which he carelessly let fall to the floor, he crawled into his bed, clutching the t-shirt to his chest.

(_Sara?_)

(_Yes, my love?_) she answered instantly.

(_I'm pree drunk._)

(_Yeah, I kinda gathered that from our earlier conversation._)

(_I'm ver sleepy, too._)

(_Go ahead and sleep it off, baby. I'll speak to you when you wake up._)

(_Love you, Sara._)

(_I love you, too, Ian._)

(_G'night._)

(_Nighty night. Sweet dreams._)

(_If I dream 'bout you, they will be._)

Seconds later, with a smile on his face and her comforting scent lingering in the air, Ian drifted off.

More to come. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou for all of the plentiful and entertaining feedback I've received over the past couple of months! Unfortunately, I can't promise that the wait won't be equally long for the next installment. I can only promise that there WILL be another chapter as soon as is humanly possible. Please, keep the feedback coming! It is the highlight of my day and really does inspire me to keep soldiering on! dragongrrl

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